


A World In Lilac Hues

by profdanglais



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate Sex, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: It began, as so many dreadful things do, at a party.Darcy falls embarrassingly fast for Elizabeth Bennet, and he has no idea what to do about it. He’d like to court her—date her—hang out with her, whatever the term for it is these days. Her lifestyle horrifies him and her friends and family bring out the worst in him but he still wants her—when it comes to her, he cannot seem to help himself.Elizabeth is never quite certain what to make of Darcy. He’s aloof and haughty and casually insulting, but she keeps catching glimpses of something deeper in his character, something that intrigues her. She doesn’t like him but she is drawn to him—and then she learns something that makes her hate him, just in time for him to ask her out in the most insulting way imaginable.In a flash the passion and resentment becomes more than either one can bear, and they find themselves in bed together. It’s only one time—then a second, and a third—and somewhere in the midst of angry sex and angrier recriminations, they forge a bond that carries them out of the wreck of their beginnings and into a happy ending that neither one saw coming.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley
Comments: 120
Kudos: 462





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, new fandom! I hope you will enjoy this small offering.

It began, as so many dreadful things do, at a party.

It wasn’t Bingley’s party, though Bingley was responsible for Darcy’s presence there. It was Bingley who, with his soft and pleading eyes (which Darcy had often felt, rather meanly, would have been far better suited in the face of a golden retriever), had managed, via a deadly combination of guilt and cajolery, to coax Darcy on board a train from London, bound for Bristol on a perfectly good Friday afternoon when any sensible man would be at home. 

The train deposited him at Temple Meads two hours later, whence he took a bus—a _bus_ —for another forty-five agonising minutes until at long, _long_ last he arrived at the loft of one Jane Bennet, with whom Bingley was (unaccountably, in Darcy’s estimation) currently obsessed.

And so, instead of spending his Friday comfortably at home with scotch and a book, and perhaps Georgiana playing something soothing on the piano in the next room, Darcy found himself standing awkwardly in the midst of what he fancied Hell must be like, wishing people would stop bloody looking at him.

One of those looking—and she would cheerfully own to it—was Elizabeth Bennet, sister to the much-lauded Jane, co-host of the party, and a woman who, when a delicious man appears in her living room, is most certainly going to spare him a glance.

“Who’s that?” she asked Charlotte. Shouted at Charlotte, really, the music was _that_ loud.

“Charles’s friend.” Charlotte knew everything. “From London. Name’s Darcy.”

“That’s his _name?_ ”

Charlotte shrugged. “Surname, probably. You know what posh boys are like.”

Elizabeth did.

This particular example of the posh-boy species was quite tall—a weakness of hers where men were concerned—and quite extraordinarily good-looking, though the effect of his dark hair and sharp jaw was rather spoilt by the expression on his face—as of one encountering a terribly unpleasant smell.

Which, thought Elizabeth, was entirely possible. This party had got a bit out of control, and she was no longer certain who exactly was in attendance or what they might be smoking.

This party was sheer chaos, thought Darcy. Far too many people packed into far too small a space, bodies writhing, shouting at each other over music so loud he could feel it vibrating in his bones.

God, he hated it. The noise, the confusion, the way you couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. The way you could hardly even think. Give him a quiet gathering of close friends any day, at a boutique restaurant or better yet at home, anyplace there might be actual conversation rather than this shrill and mindless squawking.

Someone grabbed his arm and he nearly leapt from his skin. But it was only Bingley, his golden-retriever eyes cheerful but hazy with drink and secondhand smoke and young love. He wrapped his hand around Darcy’s bicep and held on, in order to keep himself upright, Darcy surmised.

“Darcy! What are you doing hiding in the corner?” he demanded. “Come, talk to people. Dance with us!”

“No.” Darcy’s head was pounding from the beat of the music and the tension in his shoulders, and the absolute last thing in the world he wanted to do was attempt to dance—an activity he could only just about manage in a formal ballroom setting. Here amongst this wild and carefree crowd he’d never be able to move a muscle.

Bingley’s face fell into an expression of disappointment that would have been comical had it not sent a stab of guilt through Darcy’s chest.

“You don’t like it here,” said Bingley sorrowfully. “You’re not having fun.”

 _What was your first clue_ , sneered the nasty voice in the back of his mind, but despite that voice and the ache in his head and his vicious mood, Darcy wouldn’t hurt Bingley for the world.

“It’s just not really my scene,” he said stiffly. “You didn’t tell me there would be so many… people here.”

Bingley leaned in and spoke low his ear, as though conveying a closely guarded secret. “I didn’t know,” he whispered, then reared back his head and laughed. “I didn’t know! Jane said their parties are popular in the neighbourhood but I had no idea it would be—Darcy. Darcy. Darce, old man.”

“What?” Darcy could barely follow the train of his friend’s thoughts, but he imagined they were no longer speaking about the party.

“ _What_ do you think of Jane?” Bingley demanded, confirming this theory. “Is she not the most—the best—the absolutely amazingest and most brilliant woman you’ve ever met in all your life? Well? _Isn’t_ she?”

“Jane is lovely,” Darcy agreed, and she truly was. Beautiful and with a gentle sweetness in her manner that would draw a man like Bingley as a fly is drawn to honey. Darcy could not imagine what might incite such a charming woman to throw a party like this one. He dreaded to think.

“Look, look,” Bingley clutched at his arm and pointed into the crowd. “Look there! That’s her sister, Elizabeth.”

Darcy squinted in the direction his friend indicated. “Which one?”

“There! Right there, in the green dress. She’s lovely too. Why don’t you go talk to her?

A shifting within the crowd at last granted Darcy a glimpse of the woman Bingley meant, as she detached herself from the heaving pit of bodies and made her way over to the table near where they were standing, grabbed a can of beer off it, popped the top and drank it down in great heaving gulps. 

“ _Her?_ ” Darcy nearly spat. “You must be joking.”

Elizabeth finished her beer and was brushing away a rogue droplet rolling down her chin when the deep voice with the posh accent fell on her ears. She tilted her head and from the corner of her eye saw Charles and his tall friend with the curious name. Charles smiling his jolly smile, the tall friend looking as though he’d just eaten a bad oyster.

_“Her? You must be joking.”_

“What?” Charles sounded genuinely shocked. “Why not? She’s fit!”

“She has purple hair.” Spoken in the same tone one might use to remark: _She hunts children for sport_.

“Well, yeah, but it suits her. It’s whimsical! Come on, Darce, loosen up for once.”

The tall friend—Darcy, if he _insisted_ —drew his mouth into a thin, hard line. “You’re wasting your time with me, Bingley,” he said. “I will never be ‘loose’ enough to talk to anyone who has purple hair.”

This was undoubtedly true, thought Elizabeth, and what a happy escape for the purple-haired people of the world. She herself would be prepared to keep her hair that colour for the rest of her life if it functioned as a repellent against men with sticks up their arses the size of the one this so-called Darcy was packing.

She snorted a laugh at that mental image, and when she glanced back at Darcy he was alone, turning towards her and away from Charles’s retreating form. Their eyes met. She quirked a brow as she held his gaze, so as to leave no doubt in his mind that she’d heard every word he said, but if he was embarrassed at being caught out he gave no indication of it. She inclined her head in a mocking nod which he returned with a small half-bow, then both turned their backs and walked away.

-

Many hours later Elizabeth lay sprawled on the sofa amidst the wreck of her living room, with her head on the armrest and her feet in Charlotte’s lap, and a headache blooming behind her eyes. Party detritus was strewn everywhere, some bloke she’d never met was passed out in the bathtub, and Jane had gone home with Charles Bingley, to his newly renovated, airy, and most importantly _clean_ loft a few streets away.

All in all a successful evening, thought Elizabeth, though she was not looking forward to the tidying up.

“I found out more about your friend Darcy,” Charlotte remarked.

“Mmm?” Elizabeth had thought she was asleep. “More of his esteemed pronouncements on the suitability of hair colours?”

“Oh, far better than that.”

“Tell me.” Part of her hated that she was interested but the man’s sheer arrogance amused her and she never could resist the opportunity to laugh. Preferably _with_ people rather than _at_ them, but this Darcy was asking for it.

“His given name is Fitzwilliam, for a start.”

And laugh she did. “Good lord. No wonder he prefers to be called Darcy.”

“His mother’s maiden name, so I’m told,” Charlotte informed her.

“Naturally.” Elizabeth restrained her sneer, but barely. “How very posh boy of him.”

“It seems he’s in property development—”

“Of course he is.”

“—though he doesn’t have to work at all. He’s the nephew of an Earl and quite terribly wealthy.”

“Of _course_ he is.”

“And so it seems he simply runs his enormous, multi-million pound company for his own amusement.”

“Uses it, you mean,”—the sneer was unrestrained now—“to impose his will on the countryside and shape it to suit himself and other wealthy men, and woe betide anyone who dares attempt to stand in his way. Yes, that sounds like something he would find amusing.”

Charlotte gave her a curious look. “I thought you didn’t speak to him?”

“I didn’t.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“You sound very decided in your opinion of him, is all.”

“I know the type, Charlotte!” Elizabeth sat up, far too suddenly for the good of her tender head, but she ignored the stab of pain. “Born to privilege and disdainful of anyone and anything that lies beyond his very narrow sphere.”

Charlotte’s lip quirked. “Do you get narrow spheres?”

“You know what I mean!”

“It’s just that spheres are, by their nature, anything but narrow.”

Elizabeth threw up her hands. “There’s no talking to you when you’re drunk,” she proclaimed. “I’m going to bed.”

She stood up, precariously to be sure, and looked down at her friend.

“You staying? You can have Jane’s bed if you like.”

“If you’re sure she wouldn’t mind.” Charlotte stifled a massive yawn. “I don’t really fancy trying to get a cab at this hour.”

“Of course she wouldn’t mind. If she were here she’d offer to sleep on the couch so you could have it, as you know perfectly well.”

Charlotte staggered off to Jane’s room and Elizabeth to her own, stopping along the way to poke her head into the bathroom. Mystery bloke was still there, fast asleep in the bathtub, snoring faintly. He would be a problem for Future Elizabeth, she decided as she pulled off her dress and collapsed into her bed, drawing the duvet up around her ears.

She was asleep almost instantly, and as sweet oblivion claimed her the last image she saw in her mind was, inexplicably, the gorgeous, scornful face of Fitzwilliam Darcy.

-

Darcy was in his office early Monday morning, already hard at work when Caroline Bingley appeared, leaning against the jamb of his half-open door and smiling that smile she reserved for when she was about to stir a pot.

“Morning,” she drawled. “And how was your weekend?”

“I expect you’ve heard,” he replied, not looking up from his computer screen.

“I heard you met Charles’s latest totty, yes.”

“Bit rude, Caroline.” He spared her a glance, managing to look down his nose at her although he was seated and she quite tall. It was a knack inherited from his aunt, and he was rather proud of it. “I thought she was perfectly lovely.”

“Oh Jane Bennet is a sweet girl,” Caroline conceded, though her smile had gone somewhat brittle. “But her sisters! Did you happen to meet any of them?”

Images flashed through Darcy’s mind, of purple hair and the most extraordinary pair of eyes, dancing with mirth and mockery. “No,” he replied, rather gruffly. “I did not have that pleasure.”

“A narrow escape is what you had, if that’s the case,” said Caroline. “Such a collection of ill-bred bohemians you’d never hope to find. The second eldest dropped out of Cambridge to become an artist, can you imagine!”

Darcy kept his face impassive, the old wound hardly twinging. “Did she?”

“Oh yes. Takes after her father, apparently, he’s some sort of portraitist.”

“What?” He looked up sharply. “Their father is Sir John Bennet?”

“Er—yes, I imagine. Why, do you know him?” Her tone proclaimed clearly that she considered this to be impossible.

Darcy ignored the tone. “He’s the most celebrated portrait artist in the country, Caroline. He did that one of Georgiana for her sixteenth. I only met him twice, but—that’s their _father?_ ”

Caroline’s eyebrows had shot up nearly to her hairline. “It would seem so,” she said.

“Hmm.” Darcy would be lying if he said that this information did not soften, at least somewhat, his opinion of the Bennet family, but he’d also be a fool to say as much to Caroline. Opting for the path of valour’s better part, he said: “Speaking of artists, I’d like to commission one to do a mural for the new offices. Now, I know your opinion on the subject,” he added hastily, anticipating her objection, “but my mind is made up. Please add it to the agenda for the next board meeting.”

“Well, if you insist,” said Caroline, smiling her sharp-edged smile. “As you know, _Mr_ Darcy, your wish is my command.”

“Thank you,” he replied absently, his mind already occupied elsewhere.

-

Two weeks later Darcy was again early at his office. In truth, he was nearly always early at his office, due both to the habits drilled into him by his admirable but workaholic father and his own enjoyment of the early hours of the day—their silent stillness and the expectation they held, and the fact that they afforded him the peace he needed to get some work done before he was descended upon by hordes of people demanding his attention.

This particular morning, however, his early arrival drew its motivation from a different source. At nine o’clock precisely he was scheduled to meet with the artist he wished to commission to paint a mural in the lobby of his new office building. A promising but reclusive artist, about whom very little was known. Darcy himself knew nothing more than that he adored everything he had seen of their work. It was astoundingly varied, from breathtaking landscapes to insightful portraits to quirky still-lifes, all rendered in a bold and distinctive style that called to something deep within his soul.

That was all he needed to know, he had informed first Caroline and then the board, when they protested that the mural ought at the very least to be done by someone with a Name, one that would both emphasise and enhance the prestige of their firm. At the very least, they said, let us choose an artist whose website contains more information than the name used to sign their works—Ebenn, whatever that might mean—and an email address for serious enquiries only.

But Darcy remained steadfast. It was a landscape he was after for his mural, one that captured his home county of Derbyshire in all its expansive beauty. There could be no better way, he informed them—Caroline and the board—to celebrate this beauty than by distilling it through the lens of his favoured artist’s unique eye. There was nothing he wanted more.

To his satisfaction they acceded to his request and to his delight Caroline’s enquiry email was promptly and professionally answered. The artist expressed interest in the commission and willingness—eagerness, even—to travel to Derbyshire to view the subject of the mural in person, as it were, confessing it was a place they had never been but always wished to see. This morning’s meeting was a simple formality, to hammer out the details and seal the deal.

Though he displayed no outward sign of it, Darcy was excited. His own forays into art may have been curtailed when he was still quite young, by well-meaning parents who wished for him to carry on the family business, not ‘dabble in fripperies’ as they had phrased it, but at least he was now in a position to assist others in their voyage down the path that had been closed to him. This commission would be the largest and the most highly publicised of the artist’s career and _he_ was the one to bring it about. _He_ would be the one who—

A brief knock sounded at his door, barely snapping him out of his eager daydream before Caroline’s head poked through his door.

“Your artist is here,” she said, with a sly smirk he felt could bode nothing good. What on earth might Caroline find to smirk about over an artist who—

Oh.

_Oh._

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments! I am historically bad at replying to them but greatly appreciate every one.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man frequently taken by surprise. He couldn’t afford to be; in his line of work it was essential to remain at least one step ahead in any negotiation and Darcy considered it a point of pride that he had never once been wrong-footed or caught out by anyone, be they associate, client, or rival. It demonstrated a real superiority of mind, he felt, his ability to identify and anticipate others’ moves three or four steps in advance, as though they were laid out before him like pieces on a chessboard.

This is likely the reason why, when Elizabeth Bennet strolled into his office with her purple hair twisted into a complicated knot atop her head and her remarkable eyes lively with amusement, it took him a moment to recover his composure.

He had simply never been so surprised in his life before.

“Ebenn,” he said, once he had regained his powers of speech. “I had been pronouncing it like ‘ebony’ without the ‘y’. But it’s E Benn, isn’t it? Elizabeth Bennet.”

“I’m pleased to see we’re not bothering to pretend we don’t remember each other, Mr Darcy,” replied Elizabeth, somewhat archly. Darcy felt a flush threaten to rise in his cheeks and furiously willed it away.

“Did you know it was me, then?” he asked stiffly, greatly disliking this feeling of being unbalanced, thrown off his game. “My company?”

“I did my research,” she replied. “Though I confess I did not think I’d be meeting with the man himself, as it were. I’d expected an underling. Caroline Bingley, possibly.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “She’s your Girl Friday, isn’t she?”

“Mmm.” Those eyes were absolutely bloody captivating, Darcy thought, though he couldn’t quite make out their exact colour… blue, perhaps, or grey… or was that a flash of green? The teasing expression faded from Elizabeth’s face, replaced by one of baffled discomfort, and he realised he was staring. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he said, in solemn answer to her mocking question. “Insofar as she is my assistant.”

“Oh. Insofar,” murmured Elizabeth. Her expression remained impassive though the twinkle had returned to her eyes, Darcy noted with a thrill that may equally have been pleasure or alarm. 

“Won’t you have a seat, Miss Bennet,” he said, groping desperately for his professional demeanour. He needed, somehow, to regain the advantage here, and with no other means of doing so easily to hand he fell back on the familiar haven of stiff formality.

He gestured to the chair facing his desk to indicate that she should sit in it, which she did, settling in with graceful ease and crossing her legs. She was wearing skinny jeans, he noted in mild horror. Jeans, in _his_ office, for a formal meeting. Jeans that outlined the gentle curve of her hip and thigh and had him scrambling once again for his composure as he sat in his own chair and shuffled some papers on his desk, carefully not looking at Elizabeth’s face or form. An awkward silence fell.

Darcy knew of course that he must say something. He had requested this meeting after all, and there were many things they needed to discuss. With effort he smoothed his features and cleared his throat, then risked a look at her.

“About the commission,” he began, just as she said: “So tell me about the commission.” Darcy broke off, flustered yet again, but Elizabeth laughed brightly.

“Oh dear,” she said, “this is a bad beginning. Perhaps we should simply start again.” She leaned forward slightly and held out her hand. “Mr Darcy, I am Elizabeth Bennet, known artistically as Ebenn, and I am here to discuss the mural you wish to commission.”

Darcy took her hand automatically, as one does when a hand is offered in such a context, yet as he enclosed it in his own to shake he felt a jolt of something, some deep and quivering sensation in his gut that he was at a loss to explain. Elizabeth’s hand was small, slender but strong. Capable. The hand of an artist. His own enveloped it and it occurred to him quite suddenly what a difference there was between his size and hers. He could tuck her against his shoulder and her head would barely reach the top of it. The same could be said of many women, of course, he was a tall man, but never before had he felt such a strong awareness of his own body and of another person’s, in such a visceral way.

He swallowed hard and dropped her hand, noting her startled reaction and hating it, wishing he could smile and play along with her game. But he was too discomfited and his mouth refused to bend. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet,” he said gruffly. “Perhaps you would care to discuss the details of the mural?”

Her face fell slightly but she nodded. “I would.”

Darcy sat back in his chair, forcing his mind away from his unsettling guest and towards the details of his project. He did not, of course, see the way the stern lines of his face softened as he began to speak of it or how his eyes brightened with enthusiasm, nor did he feel the tension leave his shoulders as he got caught up in outlining the details of his plans. But Elizabeth saw it all, and more—how he leaned forward as he spoke and the warm tone of his voice—and she marvelled at it.

He explained that the mural would grace the wall of the new office’s lobby, presented details of the dimensions of said wall, the angle of the light that hit it, the ventilation in the room. She listened carefully, interrupting occasionally with questions which he found pertinent and insightful and _delightful_ , then named a quote for her work which struck him as extremely reasonable. He had been prepared to pay more.

“The exact subject and rendering I shall leave up to you,” he said, once all the points of the contract had been agreed and sent on to Caroline to input into a document and print. “I'm familiar with your style and I trust your judgement when it comes to specific matters of artistry.” He flashed her a brilliant smile before refocusing on his notes, failing to notice her startled blink or the slight flush that rose in her cheeks. “I have only one hard requirement,” he continued. “The mural must be be a representation of the Derbyshire landscape.”

She nodded. “Yes, so Caroline informed me. If I might ask—is there some significance to the choice of Derbyshire in particular?”

“Oh yes,” he replied. “These offices will house a pet project of mine, and Derbyshire is my home.”

“ _You’re_ from the north?” Her surprise this time was so evident in her tone he couldn’t help but notice, looking up in vague confusion to find her frowning at him.

“Er—yes. It’s where my family is from,” he explained. “And where I spent much of my childhood.”

“I—see.”

Darcy felt rather offended by her bewilderment. “This surprises you,” he observed.

“Well yes, I confess it does. You seem very, er… very London, I suppose.”

“I won’t inquire what you mean by that,” he said dryly, “and merely take as a given that it’s unflattering.”

She flushed an enchanting shade of rose pink. “My aunt is from Derbyshire,” she said, the words tumbling over themselves in her rush to explain, “and she speaks so warmly of the place and of the people that I simply…” She gestured helplessly. “Well, I…”

Darcy took pity on her. “Your aunt, you say?”

“Yes.” She smiled in relief. “My favourite aunt, if I confess the truth. She often goes into raptures about the beauty of the peaks.”

He found himself liking this aunt of hers. “Yet I understand you have never seen them yourself?” he inquired. 

Elizabeth gave a wry smile. “No. As I believe I informed Caroline, I’m glad for this commission as it provides me with the perfect excuse to finally go.” 

“Excellent.” Darcy arranged his notes in a tidy pile and set them aside, then spoke words that he had not, until they emerged from his mouth, intended to say. “I have appointments I cannot miss for the next few days, so we'll have to wait until Thursday to make the trip. I hope that's not inconvenient?”

Elizabeth’s jaw dropped and her eyes bugged, and Darcy felt a pleasing thrum of vindication. She was not the only one with the capacity to cause astonishment.

“ _We_?” she sputtered.

“Of course.” He affected a look of surprise at her surprise. “Naturally I will accompany you. How else will you know where to find the best vistas?” He’d have to reschedule some meetings, but that shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought, already making mental notes for how to instruct Caroline to proceed.

“I’m sure I can manage on my own. I can get a guidebook.” That she was attempting to maintain a professional tone was plain to see, but her irritation could not be disguised. Darcy took perverse pleasure from it, and disregarded the slight twinge he felt at how vehemently she seemed to resent the idea of spending a day in his company. 

“A guidebook can hardly replicate the experiences of one who grew up in the place,” he pointed out.

“Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth was looking somewhat desperate. “I truly don’t mind going alone.”

“Miss Bennet, I understand that, but this mural is very important to me and I wish to see it done right.”

A spark of genuine anger flared in her eyes. “And you think I won’t ‘do it right’ without your _guidance_?” she spat. “When you _just_ said you trusted me.”

“Your vision, your interpretation, your talent, yes, those I trust. But even the most skilled artist needs the right subject. Simply allow me to show you the places that might best inspire you.” Darcy folded his hands together on his desk and focused on not twisting them anxiously. He wanted this, he realised, and far more than he should. Wanted to show her where he came from, the places that had shaped him. Precisely _why_ he wanted that so badly, he had no notion.

Or perhaps he simply didn't wish to think about it. 

She sat back in her chair with a huff of annoyance, scowling even as she conceded. “All right,” she said. “Thursday will be fine.” 

Darcy suppressed a triumphant grin. “Excellent. Meet me in front of the building at six am.”

“Six!” she exclaimed.

“It’s a three and a half hour drive,” he informed her. “We can make an early start, spend the day there, and return in the evening.” He couldn’t possibly be away for more than a day. Even one was pushing it.

“Oh.” She frowned. “I’d thought I might stay longer, but… well. All right.”

Satisfied that she had come around to his way of seeing things, Darcy rose to his feet and automatically she followed, still frowning. He wanted her gone now, as quickly as possible, afraid that if he allowed her time to think she would find a way to get out of this trip, a trip that he was now utterly determined to take with her. “See Caroline on your way out for the contract and other paperwork,” he instructed, opening the door and holding it for her. “And I’ll see you on Thursday, Miss Bennet.”

“Ah—yes.” She nodded as she left the office, trailing a light floral scent in her wake. “Thursday.”

—

Elizabeth left the Shard—because _of course_ that was where Darcy’s primary offices were located—and headed out into the grey and bustling streets of London. It was a cool, drizzly day and she paused for a moment just outside the doors, to wrestle with her umbrella and regain her bearings after that perplexing meeting.

She rested the umbrella against her shoulder and twirled it absently as she walked, weaving her way through the crowds to the bridge and then across it, continuing along Gracechurch Street to Leadenhall Market where she was meeting her aunt for brunch.

“Darling!” cried Aunt Emily, waving as Elizabeth approached then wrapping her in a warm hug which she returned gratefully. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine,” Elizabeth replied, rather vaguely. She wasn’t sure herself. “How are you? And my uncle, and the children?”

“We’re all well.” Emily tucked her her niece’s arm around her own and they walked together through the arched entrance to the market. “Edward is busy as ever, but if things continue to go on as they are he might be able to take early retirement in a few years’ time.”

“Oh, that’s excellent!”

“Yes.” Emily’s eyes grew dreamy. “We’d finally be able to travel as we’ve always talked of doing. Take the children up for an extended stay in Derbyshire, perhaps.”

“Mmm,” replied Elizabeth.

Her aunt cast her a sharp look, but said simply: “Where would you like to eat? If you’ve no preference I know of a place nearby that does a good fry-up.”

“You know what?” Elizabeth smiled at the thought of some hearty eggs and bacon and beans. “That sounds like just exactly what I need.”

—

The small cafe was cheery enough, thought Elizabeth as she and Emily took their seats, and clearly trying hard to capture the vibe and atmosphere of a classic greasy spoon. Minus the grease of course, this was the City of London and there were standards to maintain.

Elizabeth gave a little shudder as she picked up a menu. It was large and laminated but pristine, without so much as a hint of the sticky film that should surely coat it, for the sake of authenticity. But here in the City everything was corporate, from the skyscrapers to the cafs. Even the elegant architecture of places like Leadenhall or the Bank of England or the dome of St Paul’s could not compensate for the fact that there was no _life_ in the place. Its buzz of activity was transient; as soon as working hours were over it would be gone, the streets left deserted and eerily silent. The City was a place people worked, where they ate in slick and trendy cafes because they had to—to fuel their bodies, to network, to be seen, but certainly not to enjoy. This wasn’t a place people _lived_.

People _stayed_ there, of course. Her Uncle Edward kept a small flat close to his office, a place to sleep on days he worked hours too long to make the commute back home worthwhile. Weekends and every evening he could manage, however, he spent in Kent with fresh air and his family, a brief respite before he returned to the grind of his working life.

“So tell me about this new job,” said her aunt, once they’d ordered, giving her hand a squeeze. “It must be a big one, if it’s brought you all the way to the City.”

“It is.” Elizabeth couldn’t quite explain what it was that drew her to this commission, what had made her so eager to take it despite knowing that it would bring her into direct and frequent contact with Darcy. Corporate gigs were not her thing at all, and yet…

“It’s for the Pemberley Group, a mural for a new office building of theirs,” she said.

“Pemberley?” Her aunt’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Yes.” Elizabeth frowned. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Indeed it does. Pemberley is the name of one of the finest houses in Derbyshire, not far from where I grew up. I wonder if this company could be run by the same family?”

Elizabeth stifled a sigh. “The Darcys?” she ventured. If anyone was going to name their corporation after their family’s ancestral pile it would be them.

“Yes!” Emily exclaimed. “I believe it must be the same! How remarkable.”

“Mmm.”

Their tea arrived, in a metal pot with sturdy stoneware mugs. Emily poured and Elizabeth added milk to hers, along with two sugars. She felt as though she needed them, and took a bracing sip before she spoke again.

“So do you—did you ever meet them?” she asked. “The Darcys, I mean?”

“Oh, no.” Emily sipped her tea, managing the task with elegance despite the hefty white mug. “My family had a small amount of influence in the area but the Darcys moved in far more elevated circles than mine.”

Elizabeth nodded and sipped again as her fingers toyed with the edge of the formica tabletop. “But did you ever hear… anything about them?”

“I never heard anything bad, if that’s what you mean. They’re quite an old family and have lived at Pemberley for several centuries. Rather unusually among the landed gentry, they haven’t had to sell their house or use it as a movie set or a hotel or whatever else people with grand houses and no money find themselves doing.”

“It’s likely the Pemberley Group pays for its upkeep,” observed Elizabeth.

“Yes, I imagine so.” Emily sipped for a moment as she thought. “Why I don’t believe they even charge for tours of the house.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “ _Can_ you tour the house?” she asked.

“Yes of course. When the family’s away, that is.” Emily set down her mug and gave Elizabeth a probing look. “Why all these questions, Lizzie?”

“The mural I’ve been commissioned to paint is of Derbyshire. The peaks.”

“Oh, how lovely!”

“Yes.” Elizabeth smiled at her aunt’s enthusiasm. “I confess I’m glad for the opportunity to finally see it, after hearing so much gushing from you.”

“I never gush, Elizabeth,” said Emily sternly. “I merely state factually that Derbyshire is the finest of all the counties.”

“Mmm.” Elizabeth’s eyes danced as she took another sip of tea. “Well, I’ll be able to see for myself on Thursday.”

“Do you need recommendations for places to visit?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Really? I know you like to do things on your own, but a guidebook can hardly replicate the experiences of—”

“Yes, I know, I know, but that’s not it,” interrupted Elizabeth, not keen to hear more invective against innocent guidebooks. “Darcy—the current Darcy, I mean, the head of the company—he’s coming with me.”

“Ah.” Emily gave her a curious look, one that had Elizabeth resisting the urge to squirm. “And did you not expect him to?”

“Well, no.” _Obviously not._ “I wouldn’t have thought that a man of his… stature… would have the time, much less the inclination to take a road trip with—well, with me.” With a scruffy artist with purple hair, she thought but did not say.

“Hmm. It does seem odd when you put it like that. Did he give a reason?”

“He said he wanted to make sure the mural was done _right_.” Elizabeth’s wandering fingers crumpled a packet of non-dairy whitener. “He said it in such an insulting, such a _condescending_ tone, and yet not five minutes before he'd paid my art some… well, some surprisingly flattering compliments. I can’t make him out at all.”

“Why should you have to?” inquired Emily, casually, as the waitress arrived with their food. “He’s only a client, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth unfolded a paper napkin with a sharp snap of her wrist and laid it in her lap. “He’s only a client.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for kudos and comments, I'm so pleased this story is getting such a lovely response! I won't be able to continue updating so frequently in the future, probably not at all for the month of November, though I will try to get at least one more chapter up before then. But this fic is going to be a long and slow one, so buckle in and please do subscribe if you want to be sure not to miss an update!

The next morning—Tuesday—found Elizabeth back in Bristol and at something of a loss. No matter what she attempted to do to distract it, her mind kept returning to the events of the day before—to the meeting with Darcy that had been by turns flattering, frustrating, infuriating, and exhilarating. She felt as though she might like to talk to someone about it but had no idea whom or what she would even say. What _was_ there to say? As her aunt had so succinctly stated, he was only a client. She would paint his mural and take his money then each would go on living their lives as before. They would never see each other again.

Quite why that prospect left her feeling so restless and unsettled she could not speculate.

Jane and Charlotte were both at work and while normally Elizabeth would spend the morning painting in her studio, on this particular day none of her projects there or anything else in her flat could hold her interest for much longer than the space of a few minutes. She found herself itching to get started on the Pemberley mural, almost buzzing with excitement at the prospect of digging into such a project, but until she had been to Derbyshire there was no practical place to begin and she could not go to Derbyshire for another two days. 

In desperation she threw on shoes and a jacket and headed out for a walk. The day was brisk and sunny and would clear her head, she told herself. She would walk along the river and then go for a coffee, perhaps sit for a while by the window and sketch a bit. She turned her collar up against the breeze and buried her hands in her pockets as she walked, and set her mind free to roam.

The coffee shop she favoured was quite near her flat, but after an hour’s walk in what proved to be less a breeze and more a bracing wind, Elizabeth was windswept and pink-cheeked when she finally arrived there. It was a small shop, independently run, of the sort that roasted its own beans and served vegan cakes yet whose warm atmosphere and friendly staff kept it just on the right side of pretentious. And the coffee was really good.

When she entered it was empty save for a small handful of people scattered around its wooden tables—one of whom, she noted from the corner of her eye, seemed vaguely familiar. She couldn’t for the life of her recall where, but she was sure she’d seen that face before. Rather a nice face it was too, slender and handsome with hair falling across its forehead in an artfully messy way that was no less appealing for being so obviously contrived. She wished she could place it.

It wasn’t until she had her latte in one hand and a vegan chocolate slice in the other, and was looking about for a good place to sit that the memory clicked into place. She spun around so quickly drops of latte splashed onto her hand and slid into a chair across from him.

“Mystery bathtub bloke!” she exclaimed. “ _That’s_ why you look so familiar!”

“Er—I’m sorry?” He looked up with a confused frown that shifted quickly into a confused smile.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, setting down her cake and coffee and holding out her hand. It was still speckled with drops of foam but the man shook it warmly nonetheless then offered her his napkin.

“Have we met?” he inquired as she wiped her hand. “Please tell me we haven’t, or I’m afraid I’ll hate myself. There’s no excuse for forgetting a face as lovely as yours.”

Ooh, he was a slick one, thought Elizabeth. Challenge accepted.

“You came to a party at my flat a few weeks ago,” she informed him, arching an eyebrow. “Passed out in the bathtub. I went to offer you a cup of tea the next morning but you were gone.”

His smile flared into a grin, wide and charming and with a hint of self-deprecation that Elizabeth found delightfully refreshing after the cool arrogance of Darcy. “Ah, yes, I remember now. Not your face, mind, but the party. Only it’s quite unfair of you to use the term ‘passed out.’”

“Oh, _is_ it?” Elizabeth found herself grinning in return.

“Yes indeed. I didn’t ‘pass out,’ you see, I fell asleep.”

“You fell asleep.”

“That I did.”

“In my bathtub.”

“It’s a very comfortable bathtub.”

“I don’t believe I have sufficient experience of bathtubs to speak with any authority on that subject, so I’ll take your word for it,” laughed Elizabeth. “Though one might wonder what you were doing in the bathtub in the first place, comfortable or otherwise.”

His grin turned wry. “Well, if you must know, I hid in the bathroom to avoid one of your guests but he stayed far longer than I expected and the toilet was growing uncomfortable, so I nipped into the bathtub to stretch my legs and there I fell asleep.”

Elizabeth laughed again. She had a bright, carefree laugh that rang through the small shop and made all who heard it smile. “That is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard,” she declared.

“Ridiculous it may be,” he conceded, “but true, as all the most ridiculous stories are.”

“You have a point there. But why hide in the bathroom, of all places? What if the person you were hiding from decided to use it?”

Mystery bathtub bloke—MBB, she dubbed him in her head—gave an inelegant snort. “No danger of that, he’d die of constipation first.”

“Are you serious?” MBB nodded and she gaped at him, wondering if perhaps she and Jane might have to take more careful note of who exactly was attending their parties. 

“No offence, but the state of your bathroom is a bit—casual,” said MBB with a slight smirk. “And this man does not take a piss in a casual bathroom. So I knew I’d be safe.”

Elizabeth felt comprehension begin to dawn. “This man, he wouldn’t happen to be called Fitzwilliam Darcy, by any chance?” she asked.

MBB blinked in surprise. “How did you guess?”

Elizabeth struggled to keep a sneer off her face, without much success. “I’m pretty sure he was the only person there that night who was in any condition to be particular about the toilet situation,” she remarked.

“Very true.” MBB gave her a speculative look. “Er, friend of yours, is he?”

“Hah,” said Elizabeth. “Hardly.”

“Hmm.”

“He’s a friend of my sister’s boyfriend,” she elaborated. “And now I guess I kind of work for him.”

“ _Work_ for him?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m an artist and he’s just commissioned me.”

“Ah.” He fiddled with his coffee cup as his eyes flitted between her face and a spot on the wall just above her left shoulder. “Well, I wouldn’t want to poison you against your employer—”

_Wouldn’t you?_ thought Elizabeth.

“—but there are things I could tell you about Darcy that would curl your hair. Well, more so than it already is.” He gave her a smile that was too charming by half accompanied by a cheeky twinkle of his eyes, and though vague alarm bells were chiming in the back of Elizabeth’s mind, she never could resist a spot of gossip. And especially not when it promised to fan the flames of her dislike for Darcy.

“Go on, then,” she encouraged. “What things?”

MBB settled back in his chair, making bold eye contact now that he was confident of his audience. “Well, he ruined my life, for one.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite dramatic.”

“I assure you, it’s true. No exaggeration.” MBB’s expression was all solemnity now, with a hint of hurt peeking out from behind his eyes. “He stole the life I was meant to have and now I’m reduced to… well…”

“Crashing in strangers’ bathtubs?” supplied Elizabeth.

His lip quirked. “I don’t do that every night, of course, but yes, effectively.”

“So what did he do?” she pressed, when he let the silence stretch for a long minute.

“Well you see, Darcy and I were childhood friends—”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Close as boys can be. Brothers, almost. I certainly loved him as a brother.” MBB took a sip of coffee and allowed his expression to grow distant, as though recalling happy childhood days. “His father loved me too, and treated me as his own son. My father worked for their company, the Pemberley Group, and old Mr Darcy always promised him—my father, that is—that he would be sure I was well looked after. When I was sixteen my father died, but Mr Darcy paid my way through university and promised that a job would be waiting for me when I graduated. But then he died himself, just weeks before my graduation, and his son refused to honour that promise.”

The righteous flame of Elizabeth’s dislike was by that point well and truly fanned, and burning brightly enough to silence the warning bells and sear away all doubts about this man or his sincerity. “But—” she sputtered in furious indignation, “how _could_ he? His own father’s wishes!”

“Indeed. Even aside from the injury he did me, the disrespect to his father’s memory—well, it pains me.” He blinked rapidly and bowed his head, and when he looked up at her again his face wore a brave smile.

“I forgive him, of course,” he said, with a catch in his throat. “I forgave him years ago. There’s clearly something missing in him, a hole where natural human feeling should be, and that’s simply how he is. I don’t carry a grudge.”

Elizabeth reached across the table and squeezed his hand. He returned the pressure gratefully. “But it has been difficult, I must admit,” he continued, “trying to find work but discovering that every avenue is closed to me, that I have no opportunity to earn my own living as I wish to, and this due solely to one man’s vindictive jealousy. It’s why I moved here. I had to get out of London before I starved in the gutters.” He gave a wry laugh.

“Well, I for one am glad to have you here,” declared Elizabeth, “though I regret that the path that brought you was so unpleasant.” 

“I suppose any path of life that eventually led me to your bathtub cannot be a wholly bad one,” he replied, and they laughed together. “I’m George, by the way. George Wickham. So you don’t have to keep calling me ‘mystery bathtub bloke’ in your head.”

She laughed again, delighted that he had read her so accurately. “Well, George Wickham, it’s a pleasure to meet you, upright and conscious that is.”

“And you, Elizabeth Bennet.” He glanced at his phone. “I’m afraid I have to go now, but I do hope I’ll see you again.”

“I’d like that.”

“For dinner, perhaps?” He let his eyes widen hopefully and she let herself be charmed by it.

“Perhaps,” she replied archly.

His smile was all confidence now. “Is tonight too soon?”

What else did she have to do, thought Elizabeth, other than wait for bloody Darcy to clear enough time in his terribly busy schedule to courier her to Derbyshire and back. She might as well enjoy herself while she waited.

“Why not?” she replied. “I’d love to.”

—

The moment Charlotte finished work Elizabeth summoned her, along with Jane who was of course already there, to her flat for emergency drinks. She poured three generous glasses of wine and ushered the pair of them to the sofa, where they sat and sipped and listened with varying degrees of shock and dismay as she recounted the tale of Darcy and Wickham.

“Can you _believe_ it?” she exclaimed when she’d finished. “The man doesn’t even have respect for his own _father_!” 

“Oh, it’s all so dreadful!” cried Jane, who had tears in her eyes. “Poor George!”

Charlotte was far less easily moved. “Hmmm,” she said, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine. Elizabeth turned inquiring eyes on her friend.

“You sound skeptical,” she remarked.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that he would be so eager to share such personal information?” Charlotte asked. “All those details about his family and his financial situation?”

“Well, he—”

“With you, a stranger, who two minutes earlier had referred to him as ‘mystery bathtub bloke'?”

“Well, I—”

“I mean, it’s entirely possible Darcy was a jerk to him,” Charlotte went on, gesturing emphatically with her wine. “He certainly was to you.”

“True.”

“But to go from ‘thoughtlessly inconsiderate rich asshole’ to ‘jealously vindictive destroyer of lives’ is a pretty big leap.”

“That is a point, Lizzie,” said Jane, eager as always to see the best in everyone. “And Darcy is one of Charles’s closest friends. Perhaps George was exaggerating?”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth grudgingly conceded. “But it certainly didn’t sound exaggerated. He stated it all very simply, just laid all the facts out before me without so much as a harsh word for the man who wronged him.”

“An outright lie, then,” said Charlotte. “A brazen attempt to garner your sympathy.”

“Charlotte!” Jane was horrified.

“Why are you so eager to defend Darcy?” demanded Elizabeth.

“I’m not,” Charlotte protested. “But you talked to this George character for ten minutes, Lizzie, and aside from what he himself told you, you know nothing about him. Darcy you know. You know who he is and you know his best friend, and many other things about him.”

“Bad things,” snapped Elizabeth.

“Maybe.” Charlotte shrugged. “But also maybe don’t jump to conclusions in advance of all the facts.”

“Or maybe I have all the facts.” Elizabeth muttered, unwilling to let go of her resentment without a fight.

“There’s two sides to every story, and you’ve got six hours in a car with Darcy on Thursday—”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Maybe bring it up then, see how he reacts? Weigh that in the balance of George, so to speak.” 

“Fine.” Elizabeth drained the last of her wine and set the glass on the coffee table. “But now I need to go get ready, because I have a date with George.”

“Lizzie!” Jane protested, as Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Charlotte’s right, you only met him today! Are you sure you want to go out with him?”

“Need I remind you, darling sister, that you went home with Charles after _three drinks_ at the pub?”

Jane flushed. “That was different.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

“It was Charles! And he—and I—well, it was different!”

“Love at first sight, I suppose.” Elizabeth caught Charlotte’s eye and they exchanged a sardonic glance.

Jane’s flush deepened. “All right, all right. Just be careful, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her sister and squeezed her tightly. “I always am,” she said. “Don’t worry, Jane. My heart is not so easily won that I’m in danger of losing it over one dinner.”

—

Safely secured though her heart may be, Elizabeth found it softening still further during her dinner with George. He met her at her flat and they walked together to a small Greek restaurant just a few streets away, one she’d never been to before—never even heard of, though she’d lived in that neighbourhood for nearly three years—where the food was delicious and the atmosphere warmly cosy.

Conversation flowed easily as they ate, about her work and his prospects of it, and the discovery that they had missed each other at Cambridge by a year. They both agreed it was a shame they hadn’t been there at the same time, although their disciplines were so widely different—hers History of Art and his Social and Political Science—that it was unlikely their paths would have crossed even if they had. He told her of his frustrated ambitions to enter into public service and she explained why she had left her course after a year.

“I wanted to make my own art,” she said. “It’s as simple as that. I was spending all this time studying great artists, people who’d devoted their lives to _creating_ , to making things beautiful. And I thought ‘I could be doing that too, right now, so why aren’t I? What am I afraid of?’ So I quit my degree and set up my studio, and now here I am.”

“You’re an example to us all,” said George, his eyes warm with admiration. “If only we could all be so fearless.”

When the time came to pay the bill, the owner of the restaurant himself, a round and florid man with small eyes and a wide smile, appeared at their table and waved it away.

“Georgie, my boy, you know your money’s no good here,” he said with loud and vivid joviality, clapping George on the shoulder and giving Elizabeth a speculative once-over.

“Stavros, please, you’re embarrassing me,” George protested, also loudly but with a nervous edge to his voice, casting his own glances at Elizabeth as he spoke.

“Pshhh,” said Stavros. “Nothing of the kind. Now you just take your lovely lady friend and go enjoy the rest of the night with her. Eh?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the pair of them. Discomfort prickled between Elizabeth’s shoulder blades but she kept her smile firmly in place.

“Thank you for the meal.” She held out her hand. “Everything was delicious.”

“Come again,” Stavros replied, taking her hand in both of his and shaking it vigorously. “You’re always welcome.”

George was quiet as they walked the short distance to her flat, and Elizabeth acutely conscious of the loss of their earlier easy companionship.

“So how do you know Stavros?” she inquired.

“Ah, that is a tale,” said George. He turned his head to look at her and the moonlight caught his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbone and darkening the hollow beneath it. “For another time, I think.”

“If you like,” replied Elizabeth lightly. “What will we speak of instead?”

“Of how beautiful you are in the moonlight,” he murmured. They were just approaching the door of her building and he stopped walking and took her hand. “Of how much I’d like to end this evening with a kiss.”

Elizabeth smiled, pleased that whatever odd mood he’d been in seemed to have passed. “Why don’t you then?” she challenged.

He did.

—


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay between chapters, everyone. I was doing NaNoWriMo which took every spare ounce of energy and attention, but now that's over I've got time for fic again. It's a welcome break, let me tell you! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments during the little hiatus--I will try to update this fic more regularly over the next few weeks. Now let's enjoy a trip to Derbyshire!

Darcy checked his watch again. Five past six. A minute later than the last time he checked. He huffed in annoyance, partly at himself and his impatience and partly at Elizabeth Bennet, who should bloody be here by now.

The morning was a cool, gloomy one, and Darcy’s breath appeared in the air before him in puffs of white that dissipated almost instantly into the damp and heavy fog. He shoved his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from looking at his watch again, and then the fog shifted and swirled and Elizabeth emerged from it.

She was a bright burst of colour against the dull grey of buildings, air, and sky, with her hair down and curling over the shoulders of an electric teal coat and her chin buried in an enormous scarf knitted in rainbow stripes. In one hand she clutched a Starbucks cup like a lifeline, her eyes hazy and heavy-lidded; she must still be half-asleep, he thought, or she would surely not have given him such a dazzling smile.

Darcy caught his breath, his heart clutching in his chest, then released it slowly as she approached.

“Morning,” she said. “Bloody knackered, but here I am.”

“You’re late.”

The instant the words left his mouth he regretted them. He wished he could snatch them back out of the misty air before they reached her ears, before they put frost in her eyes and stole the smile from her lips.

“I do apologise,” she said crisply. “I am at the mercy of the train schedules.”

“Of course.” Darcy felt he ought to apologise himself but none of the words that came to mind seemed sufficient, or appropriate somehow to this circumstance. “It’s no matter,” were the ones he settled on. “Let’s be going.”

He ushered her over to where his car was waiting and opened the passenger door for her. She blinked, bemused, but made no comment as she slid in and settled down, unwinding her scarf and unbuttoning her coat as he rounded the bonnet and got into the driver’s seat. He cast her an uneasy glance when she placed her cup between her knees in order to remove her coat, fearing for the fate of his original leather upholstery, but she managed the task gracefully and without incident.

“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Bennet,” he said as she settled back in her seat with a sigh, unable to keep sarcasm from his tone. 

Elizabeth was running on three hours’ sleep and while the warmth and sweetness of her chai latte was soothing, its caffeine had not yet reached her brain. “I do wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she grumbled, missing the sarcasm completely. “No one calls me Miss Bennet except my bank manager.”

“Make yourself comfortable, _Elizabeth_ ,” he amended, his eyes darting over to her and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Elizabeth took a bracing gulp of chai. “Sometimes people even call me Lizzie,” she declared.

His lip curled, just for a moment, in a wry smirk. “Let’s not push our luck.”

 _Ah, well_ , thought Elizabeth, _I tried_.

“And what should I call you?” she challenged.

“Just Darcy will do.”

“Oh?” A wild impulse rose in Elizabeth, the kind of impulse she was helpless to ignore. The impulse to ruffle and unsettle this calm and steady man. To shake the unshakable Mr Darcy. “Not Fitzwilliam?” she inquired sweetly.

“ _No_.”

Ah _, there_ was a crack in his composure, she observed with mild astonishment. Who could have predicted it would derive from his own given name?

With greedy hands she seized the slight advantage. “Fitz, then?” she pressed. “Will? Billy?”

“Bloody hell.” He looked so horrified she had to bite her cheek to hold in a laugh.

“ So not Billy?” she teased.

A muscle began to dance in the corner of his jaw. She watched it, enthralled. “My friends call me Darcy,” he said stiffly.

“Mmm.” Elizabeth tore her eyes away from his jawline and sipped her chai. “Of which you have many, I’m sure.”

“A tolerable number.” His expression smoothed and became unreadable again. Elizabeth found that she was sorry for it.

“And am I your friend, _Darcy_?” she asked.

“As I said, _Elizabeth_ , let’s not push our luck.”

He returned his attention to the road and Elizabeth fell silent, nursing her chai as they crossed the river and began heading north, through the awakening streets of central London. Soon those streets would be busy and bustling, lively with activity, but at present they were quiet, shrouded in thick mist that lent them an air of the otherworldly, of a place out of its time. She leaned her head against the window and basked in the romance of it.

Silence reigned within the car as well, as it moved beyond the centre into the more residential areas of the outer zones. Elizabeth watched through her window as the road they followed filled with traffic, harried commuters running late, crawling along often bumper-to-bumper until Darcy turned them onto the M1 and the traffic thinned enough for his car to pick up some speed. By the time they crossed the M25 and out of greater London every drop of mist had burned away and Elizabeth’s chai was long since consumed, her contemplative mood long gone. She glanced the clock on the dash and sighed. Barely an hour had passed. They had two and a half more left to go.

“Well, _Darcy_ ,” she said, apparently startling him from some species of trance, if the way he jumped at the sound of her voice were any indication. “Shall we attempt some conversation?”

“Must we?” he replied.

“Yes, I believe we must.” She struggled to conceal her exasperation as he cast her a sidelong, unreadable glance. “For the sake of common courtesy, at least.”

“Do you always natter on car journeys, then?”

“No,” she retorted. “I prefer to be unsociable and taciturn. The time passes far more quickly, wouldn’t you agree, when it’s passed in utter silence. But as I know you to be such a cheerful, chatty sort, I thought I would relax my standards just this once, to humour you.”

“How obliging.” Darcy’s expression underwent no change, but Elizabeth thought that she might detect a hint, just the faintest whisper of wry humour in his tone. She wished she could see his face properly, see his eyes, to gauge if it was real or just her hopeful fancy. “What would you like to discuss?” he inquired.

She cast around for a suitable topic. “Perhaps you could tell me about Derbyshire?”

“Come now, Miss— _Elizabeth_. I’m certain you’ve done your due diligence of research. Consulted your guidebooks, and so forth.”

“Yes, I have. But seeing as you insisted that I could not _possibly_ manage to find my way to the best of the Derbyshire locales on my own, that I in fact _needed_ the guidance of a local in order to see the county properly, I don’t think I’m out of line in asking that local to share some of his vaunted insider knowledge with me.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

He paused, for so long she was tempted to needle him again, and when he finally spoke his voice held a note of softness that seemed almost yearning, a softness of which she would never have imagined him capable. “Derbyshire is beautiful,” he said. “Though of course you have heard it called so before. It's an observation made by all who go there, not exclusive to us _locals_.”

Was he _teasing_ her? Elizabeth wondered. She rather suspected he might be.

“It’s a land of rocky peaks and sweeping valleys,” Darcy continued, as formally as though he’d swallowed that very guidebook he so scorned, but though his words were straight from Fodor’s the depth of emotion behind them was not. Elizabeth felt herself relax as his voice washed over her, as he described the wild and rugged landscape and the towns and villages dotted throughout it in such vividness of detail that she could picture it all quite clearly in her head, and feel, almost, his own love for the place.

“And what about your house?” she asked, when he paused. “Pemberley, isn’t it called?”

He stiffened. “Yes,” he replied shortly. “We won’t be going there today.”

“Oh, I—of course not.” Elizabeth had never imagined that they would, and now she felt foolish for mentioning it. He must think she’d been angling for an invitation—her skin prickled with humiliation at the thought, and she had to force herself not to writhe.

She glanced over at Darcy, at his unreadable expression and chiseled profile, his hair dark and thick and his hands large and steady on the wheel. He really was exceptionally handsome, she realised with a start of surprise. She’d noticed it of course, briefly, at her party, but then he’d opened his wretched mouth and any appreciation she might have felt for the shape his face was lost in her loathing of his personality. Now, though, she looked again, through eyes opened by this revelation of a new layer to him, and it occurred to her that looking as he did, with his money and his name and his estate, he must have women angling after him all the time.

Perhaps, she thought, that was why he made himself so cold.

“Please forgive me,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to suggest that I wished to visit Pemberley. I would far rather spend today looking at the landscapes, as that is what you’ve hired me to paint. But you spoke so warmly of the other aspects of the county that I just… was curious to hear about your home.”

She watched him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, felt the silence stretch agonisingly until he spoke. “Pemberley is exquisite,” he said, “and I am deeply fond of it. There's no objection, of course, to you visiting it one day. But at present, my, er, sister is in residence there, recovering from what has been a rather challenging few months for her. I would prefer not to impose any guests on her right now.”

“You really don’t need to explain,” said Elizabeth, who now profoundly regretted venturing onto this subject and vowed never to touch it again. “It’s your house, you can invite or not invite whomever you wish and for any reason you choose.”

He made no reply but glanced at her with another twitch of his lips that hinted at a smile. She returned it, then settled back into her seat and they proceeded along the motorway, once again in silence.

-

“Well,” remarked Elizabeth with a bright laugh some hours later, as they were sitting down to a late lunch in a cosy pub just outside Bakewell, “I am thoroughly chastised now and will never again besmirch the county of Derbyshire with any skepticism on the subject either of its beauty or its superiority to other counties. Not even in the privacy of my own mind.”

Darcy watched as she unwound the scarf from her neck and tossed it into the corner of their booth, followed by her coat. She attempted to comb her fingers through her hair, now hopelessly tangled by the lively winds atop the peaks, then laughed again and gave it up as a bad job, taking up her pint instead and drinking deeply.

“I certainly hope not,” he replied solemnly. “That is, naturally you’ll acknowledge the superiority of Derbyshire now that you’ve seen it for yourself, as all right-thinking people do, but I hope that in your own mind you will always feel free to think whatever you wish. As we all should.”

Elizabeth gave him a curious look, bemused and probing.

“What?” he asked, frowning. “Have I got something on my nose?”

“No.” She set her glass down and ran her finger along its rim. “I’m merely trying to make you out.”

His heart stumbled, then began to race. “Oh? And how are you getting on?”

“Very poorly.” She glanced up again, her remarkable eyes clouded with some unknown trouble that he dearly wished to soothe. “I hear such different things about you, it’s infuriatingly puzzling.”

“What—” he cleared his throat “—what have you heard?”

“I—” she hesitated and her gaze caught his, held it as she underwent some internal struggle that had his hand flexing with the desire to reach out to her, then she shook her head and gave him an arch smile. “Only that you are a monstrous workaholic, and yet here you are on a perfectly good Thursday afternoon, having lunch in a rural pub with a purple-haired artist after spending the day roaming the countryside watching her while she sketched.”

The winds had whipped her hair to a frenzy around her face, around her eyes alight with pleasure and brightened by exercise. She’d tucked her chin into her scarf as she sketched, muttering to herself as she did, disjointed words of criticism and encouragement. He’d watched in fascination as the sketches grew beneath her pencil, marvelling at the ease of her skill and the sharpness of her eye, at the details she observed that he, the local, had never taken notice of before.

He could happily have watched her forever.

“I hope you won’t trouble yourself excessively with trying to decipher my character, Elizabeth,” he said gruffly. “I feel certain you have many far more valuable ways to spend your time. And I—I’m not sure that particular occupation would reflect well on either of us.”

She stared at him for an uncomfortable moment then smiled and shook her head again. He sensed she might be about to speak, perhaps on the topic she had struggled with earlier, but before she could their food arrived and the moment was lost.

-

The hour was quite late when Elizabeth returned home, though not as late as it might have been as Darcy had, inexplicably and without her asking, taken a detour to Bristol to drop her off.

“I wouldn’t care to abandon you to the mercy of the train schedules,” had been his only reply when she’d awkwardly attempted to thank him. 

“So how was it?” demanded Charlotte, the moment Elizabeth walked through the door. She and Jane were ensconced on the sofa, a pot of tea at the ready. “Do we need to provide you with an alibi for the time of his murder?”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Not yet.” She sank into the soft cushions next to Jane, and accepted the cup of tea her sister handed her. “Though I’d appreciate if you kept that offer open.”

“Honestly, Lizzie, was it so bad?” Jane’s kind eyes were worried.

“No, actually, it wasn’t,” replied Elizabeth truthfully. “He was civil, most of the time.”

“Merely civil?”

“I’m beginning to think civil is the best he can manage. If he’s ever actually warm I may die of shock.” Even as she spoke the words, Elizabeth knew they were false. Darcy was capable of warmth, for the people and things he cared for deeply. His sister, and his home.

“What did he say about George?” inquired Charlotte. “Did he try to defend himself?”

“I didn’t bring it up.” Elizabeth scowled at Charlotte’s raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that,” she grumbled. “I told you, he was being civil and I didn’t want to ruin that by starting a fight.”

Charlotte’s second eyebrow rose to join the first. “You, Elizabeth Bennet, didn’t want to start a fight?” she exclaimed. “Are you certain he didn’t drug you?”

“Come off it, Char,” Elizabeth scoffed. “I have to maintain a professional relationship with the man. I simply didn’t wish to antagonise him given that and the fact that I was stuck with him for the whole day. And anyway, things with Darcy are _only_ professional, if I choose to date George, or whatever I end up doing with him, I don’t see why that should be any of Darcy’s concern.”

“Other than the fact that George seemed quite keen to _make_ it Darcy’s concern,” murmured Charlotte.

“Lizzie, I’m not sure you should see George again,” Jane burst out, wringing her hands in her lap. “I spoke to Charles today, you see. About Darcy and George and what happened between the two of them. Charles said that he doesn’t know all the details but he’s certain it was George who wronged Darcy and not the other way around.”

“Well, naturally he would say that, Jane!” Elizabeth had allowed herself to forget, for the sake of a peaceful day, her indignation on behalf of George Wickham, but now it all came flooding back to her in a rush. “He’s defending his friend like the honest, loyal bloke he is, but he admits himself that he doesn’t know the details! You know perfectly well, Jane, that Darcy could lie as much as he liked and Charles would always believe him.”

Elizabeth found herself feeling unaccountably cross. She didn’t appreciate this reminder of why she so disliked Darcy, after the relatively pleasant time she’d just spent with him. It rather forcibly called into question those small moments of warmth and humanity she thought she’d witnessed in him, and she did not care for the idea that she may be as susceptible to being taken in by him as Charles was.

“Lizzie, I don’t think you should place such faith in the words of one man you barely know over another you barely know, for no other reason that that you’ve decided to like the one and dislike the other,” said Charlotte. “You’re allowing your judgement to be ruled by your preconceptions, and—”

“I don’t want to _talk_ about this now,” interrupted Elizabeth. “It’s been a long day and I need some sleep. Tomorrow I have to pack all my things and go back to bloody London.”

“You aren’t going to try to commute, are you?” asked Charlotte in alarm.

“No, thank fuck. Uncle Edward is letting me use his flat in Cheapside. I’ll sleep there during the week and come home on weekends. With any luck, I’ll have this project finished in a few weeks’ time and then I’ll never have to worry about bloody Darcy again.”

“Yes,” agreed Charlotte. “With luck.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos and questions about London transport! Please know I appreciate all of it even if I don't reply, though if you ask me a question I'll do my best to answer it!

The new Pemberley Group premises designated for Elizabeth’s mural were not in the City as she had expected nor even on a Tube line. Instead she found herself on the DLR from Bank for a remarkably comfortable journey of around ten minutes, followed by a walk of roughly ten more, ending up at a building on the river that unless she missed her guess had begun its life as a centre of maritime industry.

Elizabeth looked up at the great stretch of brown bricks that comprised the wall she was to paint—their worn faces and crumbly pointing, the small holes from which heavy equipment had once hung—and contrasted it with the slick Pemberley Group offices in the slickest building in the City. She shook her head. This was very much not what she’d been expecting.

“Miss Bennet.”

Interesting, Elizabeth reflected, how Caroline Bingley’s voice always managed to sound both coy and sly, even when discussing business formalities with a person who had nothing to offer that could be of any interest to her. It must simply be habit, she supposed.

“Miss Bingley,” she replied. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Caroline’s mouth smiled as her eyes assessed Elizabeth sharply, taking in her loose cotton trousers and oversized, paint-splattered t-shirt and clearly finding them wanting. Elizabeth wondered what she’d been expecting. A smock, perhaps, and a beret pulled over one eye? “Darcy asked me to drop by and make sure you have everything you need,” she drawled. Her tone made it plain what a waste of time she found that particular assignment.

Elizabeth discounted both the woman and the tone and swept her gaze around at the open-plan lobby of the building, noting the piles of paints and brushes and drop cloths and ladder, all just as she had specified, and in greater quantities than she imagined she’d need. “No,” she said wryly. “I believe I’m all set.”

“Good,” said Caroline. “It’s unlikely Darcy will have much time to spend in coming here to look after you. He’s a busy man as you know, and even such a short journey would eat into his schedule quite fearfully.”

Elizabeth attempted to picture Darcy on the Docklands Light Railway and found that she could not. “I’m sure there’s no need for him to go out of his way,” she murmured. “I’m quite capable of working independently and if he requires updates I’m happy to send photographs.”

“Yes. That should be satisfactory.” Caroline tapped for a moment on a tablet tucked into the crook of her elbow, then treated Elizabeth to another shatteringly false smile. “Well, if there’s nothing else you require, Miss Bennet.”

“Not a thing.”

“Then I shall look forward to seeing your progress,” said Caroline, and took her leave.

-

Given Caroline’s warning and her own understanding of Darcy’s character, Elizabeth did not expect to see him again for some time, if indeed at all. This suited her perfectly, as she had little doubt that if he did wish to speak with her she would be summoned once again to the Shard, and that was honestly an experience she could live happily without repeating. It is therefore not difficult to imagine her surprise when she climbed down from her ladder three days after beginning work on her mural and took a step backwards—straight into a very solid chest.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, spinning around in alarm and in so doing, leaving a smear of paint from her brush across Darcy’s pristine shirtfront. “Oh no,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in, and—”

“It’s quite all right.”

Elizabeth cracked open a single eyelid. His face was as implacable as ever, though she fancied she detected the faintest glimmer of humour in his eyes. “Is it though?” She forced a laugh. “I’d reply that you’re being terribly kind to say so, except, well, you’re _you_.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“It will teach me not to sneak up on an artist whilst they’re working,” he said. “Which I’m sure you’ll agree is a valuable lesson.”

Elizabeth allowed the other eye to open. “That _is_ a pretty good lesson, particularly where I’m concerned,” she said. “I get completely caught up in my head when I work and am oblivious to everything around me.”

Darcy eyed her stepladder with a small frown. “Are you certain it’s safe for you to be up so high when you’re oblivious to everything around you?” he asked. “If you like, I can hire you an assistant—”

“Oh, no, please,” she implored. “I’m perfectly fine on my own and actually quite a terror to work with, I beg you not to impose me on some defenceless art student or other lackey.”

“Well, if you’re sure you’ll be safe…”

“Quite sure.”

Abruptly, Elizabeth became aware that while her one hand was in a tight fist around the handle of her paintbrush, the other was resting lightly against Darcy’s chest and both of his were curled around her elbows, fingertips pressing against the backs of her arms to hold her steady. She could see in his eyes the moment he realised this himself, and when he wrenched his hands away as though the touch of her burned them and nearly stumbled in his haste to step back, she refused to feel bereft.

He cleared his throat and tore his gaze from hers, focusing it instead on the wall where the base layers of her painting were already well underway.

“I came to see how you were getting on,” he said gruffly. “It looks like you’ve made a fine start.” He gave her a small, tight smile.

“It’s going well so far,” she agreed, nodding at the wall. “Can you tell where it is yet?”

The smile widened, warmed, and Elizabeth felt an uncomfortable tingle ignite deep in her belly.

“I can,” he replied. “It’s Stanage Edge. I recall you sketching it, you seemed more… intense there than in the other locations. It’s an excellent choice.”

“I’m pleased you approve.”

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Are you?”

She was. She didn't care much for his approval beyond what she required from him as the one commissioning her work, but the obvious light of pleasure in his eyes made her glad she had gone with her first choice and the one that truly spoke to her rather than opting for a lighter, more conventionally pretty landscape as she nearly had. The tingle in her belly grew sharper.

“Naturally I am,” she replied, lightly, taking refuge in flippancy to distract from her unsettling feelings. “Anything for my _esteemed_ patron.”

His expression shuttered again, the smile fading, leaving her both relieved to be free of its influence and curiously empty.

“Well,” he said stiffly. “This is excellent progress, Miss Bennet. Do let me know if there’s anything further you need.”

 _So now I’m Miss Bennet again_ , thought Elizabeth as she watched him go, then spent the rest of the day firmly _not_ thinking about why that left her so disgruntled.

-

She _truly_ did not expect to see Darcy again after that, but he stopped by once more the following Monday and then every third day or so for the next two weeks. He never stayed long enough to do more than make a cursory inspection of the mural and exchange a moment’s stilted conversation with Elizabeth, making her wonder why he bothered showing up at all, especially given Caroline’s pointed remarks about the distance and his busy schedule.

She couldn’t deny, however, that despite their brevity and stiffness she rather enjoyed his visits. She enjoyed the pleasure and appreciation she could detect in his eyes and hear in his voice even while his face remained unmoving, the intelligent and insightful questions he asked about her methods, his obvious deep interest in and—dare she think it?— _love_ of art.

She _did_ dare think it, though it took her breath away. The idea that she might share her one true passion in life with Fitzwilliam Darcy left Elizabeth feeling flustered and bewildered and secretly, unaccountably, thrilled.

And so it happened that one Tuesday morning the door opened and she turned with a bright smile, expecting Darcy, only for it to freeze on her face as though captured in an awkward photograph when her visitor turned out to be not Darcy at all but George Wickham.

George's own face was split by a broad grin, in clear anticipation both of her initial shock and subsequent pleasure at seeing him again, there in her workspace.

“Hullo,” he said. “Surprise.”

“That it is,” she replied, still too stunned to truly react when he embraced her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “What on earth brings you here, of all places?”

“I was in London on business and thought I’d look you up,” he replied. “I popped by your flat before I left and Jane told me where to find you.”

“Did she?” Elizabeth considered inquiring what ‘business’ could possibly have brought him to London when he’d complained so vociferously of not being able to find work here, but he was always so cagey about the details of his employment that on the whole she thought it best not to press.

“She did,” George confirmed. “And as it’s been so long since I’d seen you—”

“Well, and whose fault is _that_?” 

“Mine, utterly and completely,” he acknowledged, with a twinkle in his eye and a head hung in mock shame. “I meant to call you, wanted to call you every day in fact, but things kept interfering and then before I knew it, it was too awkwardly late. _Can_ you forgive me?”

He was a reprobate, thought Elizabeth, but a charming one, and easily managed. “Of course,” she replied with a laugh. “Though I confess I'm somewhat astonished that you would come _here_ , given your past with Darcy.”

“Eh, if he doesn’t want to see me he can stay away,” said George, with the briefest flash of anger in his eyes. “And anyway I considered the risk a very slight one. Don’t tell me Darcy ever troubles himself to come out all this way just to see a painting. Surely leaving the City makes him break out in hives.”

Elizabeth chuckled obligingly though she couldn’t suppress a flare of irritation. “He does stop by from time to time, actually,” she said. “In fact, I thought at first that you were him, just now.”

George gave an exaggerated shudder. “Perish _that_ thought, if you please. As for why I’m here, I did consider calling on you at your uncle’s flat but I was worried if I did I might be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

His cheeks dimpled into a grin. “To invite you to have dinner with me, of course.”

“What, tonight?”

“I know it’s late notice but my business won’t be concluded until tomorrow morning and I hadn’t expected to have to stay the night here. It’s left me at loose ends and so I thought I might as well take advantage of that and try to obtain some lively dinner conversation, at the very _least_.”

A wealth of implication hovered behind that word ‘least,’ but Elizabeth’s expression did not waver. She wasn’t averse to some lively dinner conversation herself, but if he thought the evening would extend beyond that, he would find himself sorely mistaken. She liked George, very much, but after his weeks-long silence her liking was somewhat less enthusiastic than it had been. 

“That sounds lovely,” she replied. “Should I meet you somewhere?”

“How about I swing back here around six and we can go someplace nearby?” he suggested. “Unless you plan to finish earlier than that?”

“No, that sounds fine, provided wherever we end up they won’t mind me dressed like this.” She held out her arms and he smirked at her paint-adorned t-shirt.

“There are some great old pubs not far from here,” he said. “Loads of atmosphere and absolutely no dress code.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you at six then.”

He gave her a grin and another kiss on the cheek, then turned to go. Just as he was opening the doors, Caroline Bingley appeared and sauntered through them, her eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline and her eyes glinting with glee as she recognised him.

George’s face grew shuttered. “Caroline,” he said, holding the door for her with a small bow.

“My my,” she purred in response. “George Wickham. What a very small world this is.”

“Isn’t it?” George agreed.

“If you’ve come to beg for a job I’m afraid you’re in entirely the wrong place.”

“Nothing of the sort." He cast a quick glance back at Elizabeth. "I’m simply here to see Lizzie.”

“Oh indeed,” murmured Caroline. “ _Lizzie_.”

“Yes, Lizzie. And now that I’ve seen her, I’ll be off,” said George. “ _If_ you’ll excuse me.” She stepped aside and he stalked through the door, without another word or backwards glance.

Caroline turned to Elizabeth, eyebrows still raised inquiringly. “Friend of yours?” she inquired.

Elizabeth set her jaw belligerently. “What if he is?”

“Well. Your personal life is your own concern, of course,” said Caroline, with a dainty shrug. “Though if I could give you a bit of friendly advice, be careful with that one. He’s trouble. He and Darcy were childhood friends, did you know that?”

“Yes I did. He told me.”

“Of course he did,” Caroline drawled. “He takes every opportunity to tell people, and to drag Darcy’s name through the mud.”

“Perhaps Darcy deserves it,” Elizabeth snapped. Unwisely, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself in the face of Caroline’s supercilious smugness.

Caroline gave her the sort of indulgent smile one might give a child, a hopelessly slow one who is trying their hardest. “I imagine dear George has spun you some tale of woe in which he is the victim of cruel circumstance and crueller Darcys,” she quipped. “But make no mistake, whatever difficulties he’s in he brought them on himself. I don't know the details of what occurred between them but Darcy is far too loyal a friend to drop anyone unless they’d done something unforgivable. You’d be better off having nothing further to do with George.”

“Thank you for your input,” said Elizabeth coolly. “But I believe I shall rely on my _own_ judgement in my relationships, not on third-hand gossip from someone so clearly biased.”

Caroline kept her smile in place but it had gone diamond-hard, her eyes glacial. “Forgive me for my interference,” she said. “I only wished to help.”

 _You only wished to cause trouble_ , thought Elizabeth viciously. Aloud she said: “Your attempt is noted. Now what can I do for you?”

“I’m here to deliver a message from Darcy, who apparently had planned to stop in and see you today but was detained by urgent business,” Caroline replied. “He sends his regrets.”

Elizabeth huffed an irritated sigh. “He didn’t need to send you all the way here just for that.”

“No, he certainly did not. On that, at least, we can agree.” With one final razor smile, Caroline turned on her heel and swept from the room.

-

Darcy was in his office poring over the details of a contract when Caroline announced her arrival with a sharp knock on his door. When he looked up it was to find her lounging in the chair across from him, one leg crossed gracefully over the other and the smile of a cat with a belly full of canary stretched across her face.

“You’ll never guess who came to visit Eliza Bennet today,” she drawled. “Who do you think it was?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Try to guess.”

“You’ve just declared I never could.”

“Oh, pooh,” she chided, “you’re no fun. But yes, fine, you never will. It was George Wickham!” She gave a tinkling laugh. “Can you _imagine_? How are the mighty fallen.”

Darcy froze, the blood in his veins turned to ice. His jaw clenched as he forcibly restrained himself from snapping out a vicious reply. Caroline didn’t know about Georgiana, he reminded himself. All she knew of Wickham was that he’d been Darcy’s boyhood friend and had squandered all the opportunities such a position might have afforded him. She could have no idea of how even the mention of that name would make him feel.

Wickham alone was bad enough. But Wickham and _Elizabeth_ … “How the devil did he find her?” Darcy snarled. His fingers curled into a fist around his pen. “ _How?_ ”

He forced himself to remember that Elizabeth was not Georgiana. She was older, more experienced, a sharper judge of character. She wouldn’t be taken in as his sister had, surely? Yet if Wickham had come all the way to London to see her…

The pen strained beneath the force of his grip. With deliberate control he set it down and laid his hands flat on his desk, breathing deeply as he struggled to regain his calm. 

Caroline looked taken aback by the venom his tone, but recovered quickly. “Likely those are simply the circles he runs in now,” she said lightly. “And speaking of which, what are we going to do about Charles and Jane Bennet?”

Darcy recognised a volte-face change of subject when he heard one, and in this instance at least he was grateful for it. Caroline didn't usually demonstrate so much tact. “Why should we do anything?” he replied, pleased that his voice came out cool and detached.

“Oh Darcy _really!_ ” Caroline exclaimed. “Haven't you been paying attention? He’s beginning to make noises about _marrying_ her! Now I don’t mind him slumming when it’s just a fling, but I cannot possibly entertain the thought of such a woman marrying into my family.”

“The same woman I once heard you describe as ‘a sweet girl’?”

“ _She_ is. But her sisters! Four of them altogether, did you know?”

“I did not.”

“Oh yes.” Caroline sat up straight in her chair, eyes glinting as she warmed to her subject. “Allowed to run quite wild, apparently. The eldest two had a proper education but the younger ones attend some experimental school in the countryside. No discipline at all and hardly any education. It’s what comes of being raised by bohemians, I suppose. Did you know”—here she leaned in closer, eyebrows raised conspiratorially—“that their mother was once a _life model_? There are naked portraits of her in their _home_. Can you _imagine_?” She sat back again, with a smirk and a wave of her hand. “Gave it all up, of course, once she’d snagged a Royal Academician, but the evidence remains. Now I ask you, how could _I_ be expected to call a woman like that my relation?”

“It would certainly be a trial to you,” Darcy agreed, forcing the words out through a throat gone painfully tight. His chest too felt compressed, his heart fighting to beat under the weight of this new evidence of how very much Elizabeth Bennet was not for him, could never be for him. Not that he’d ever really imagined she could… not that he wanted… he swallowed hard.

“Charles is easily influenced,” he said gruffly. “Just tell him he’s talking rot the next time he mentions marriage. If we treat the subject as a joke, he’ll soon see how absurd he’s being.”

“How perfectly brilliant. I _knew_ you would have the solution,” purred Caroline. “I can always rely on you, can’t I Darcy?”

“Naturally,” he replied. “As your employer and friend.” He placed slight emphasis on the final word. “Just as I hope I can rely on _you_ to draft these contracts.” With a small nod he indicated a stack of paper on the corner of his desk.

“Of course,” said Caroline, rising smoothly to her feet. “Let me get right on that, _sir_.”

-

When Darcy got home that evening his mind was uneasy, plagued by thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet—thoughts as troublesome and as ruinous to his peace of mind as she was herself. Thoughts of her family, her wild younger sisters and scandalous mother, thoughts of her with Wickham… smiling at him, and _touching_ …

With a frustrated huff Darcy shook those thoughts from his head. He stripped off his suit, exchanged it for jeans and a soft jumper, then stalked into his living room where his tall bookshelves and his favourite armchair and the view of the river through the window normally soothed away the stresses of his day. Tonight, however, it felt oppressive, its silence heavy and cloying, and before he could think better of it Darcy found himself grabbing his keys and heading out the door, bound for his local pub. Tonight he needed noise, the buzz of conversation surrounding him, even if he didn’t care to participate in it. He wanted the understanding smile of the barman who knew his face and his usual and nothing else about him, and above all else he wanted a drink.

The pub was warm and bustling when he arrived, the interior slightly steamy on this cool and foggy night. Darcy took a moment to let the atmosphere surround him and sink into him with its comforting familiarity, then turned towards the bar. He was nearly there when he saw them.

Elizabeth Bennet and George Wickham, looking cosy as anything tucked around a corner table, each with a pint and the remains of a meal spread out between them. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her purple curls tumbling over her shoulders and her face alight with that joyous warmth Darcy was certain she shared with everyone but him.

The sight of them hit him like a blow to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping as he stood frozen, staring at them. _It’s happening again_ , was all he could think, that bloody snake Wickham inveigling his way once more into the affections of someone Darcy cared about. His father. His sister. His—

His Elizabeth.

She wasn’t his anything of course, not even truly his employee, but over the past few weeks of prickly, exhilarating encounters she had become _something_ to him, something terrifyingly vital, and abruptly all his misgivings about her family and her lifestyle, the colour of her bloody hair all seemed so insignificant. Nothing he couldn’t overlook, if she would only look at _him_ like that.

Wickham, of _course_ , chose that moment to glance up and catch sight of him. His lip curled into a snide little smirk, a smirk with which Darcy was all too bitterly acquainted. His eyes flashed defiance, just for a moment, before he smoothed his expression and murmured something to Elizabeth. She followed his gaze and gave a small gasp, alarm chasing the bright smile from her face. She placed her hand on Wickham’s arm and curled her fingers around it.

Darcy’s stomach clenched and his head spun, and he feared he might be sick. Desperately, he grappled for his calm, his control, swaddled himself in the haughty aloofness that had saved him so many times before, and met Wickham’s eyes once again. He kept his face stern and his stare cold, waited until Wickham began to squirm beneath the icy chill of it, then inclined his head in the tiniest nod.

Wickham returned it, and Elizabeth's tense expression softened into what looked almost like gratitude. Her eyes flitted to Darcy's, for the briefest of moments, then she returned her attention to her date.

Darcy set his jaw firmly as he he turned and strode from the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested in the geography of this fic, the building where Elizabeth is painting (not a real building) is in Limehouse, an old dockland area in east London, and the pub is a sort of amalgam of the Grapes and the Prospect of Whitby. If you ever get a chance to visit London I definitely recommend both those pubs and the Wapping/Rotherhithe/Limehouse area in general.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience in waiting for this chapter! I hope it won't be so long until the next one. Now that the holidays are over and some of my other writing obligations fulfilled I should have more spoons for this story. 
> 
> Bit of a short update this time, but the next one will be a doozy.

The next morning Elizabeth was back at work but far too anxious to concentrate. Her painting was so nearly finished that now was the time when she required every particle of concentration she could muster, to focus on the finish, all those tiny details that were the hallmark of her style. Normally at this point in a project she would develop a sort of laser-focus, an almost Zen-like state that permitted her to block out all distractions, but that morning—a morning that dawned after a restless, sleepless night—she simply could not find it. The prospect of Darcy stopping by at any moment as she knew, without the least particle of doubt, that he would, scrambled her brain and filled her with both anticipation and dread.

The conversation they would have to have about George Wickham sat as an almost threatening presence at the back of her consciousness. Of course she knew, had always known despite her unwillingness to acknowledge as much that the tale George had told her could not be the entire story. Darcy would have his side as well, obviously, but Elizabeth had so enjoyed holding up the tragic martyrdom of George Wickham as another reason to loathe Darcy that she simply hadn’t allowed herself to give it any thought.

Now she did. She couldn’t not, not with the expression on his face when he’d spotted her and George together burned into her memory. There had been shock of course, and disgust—loathing directed at her dinner companion and not herself and yet… when he’d looked at _her_ …

The door opened, sending Elizabeth’s heart leaping into her throat—but when she turned to see who had arrived, it sank to somewhere in the vicinity of her shoelaces.

“Lizzie!” Mrs Bennet spoke in that high-pitched voice she always used to convey girlish enthusiasm, supposing that to be a desirable trait in a woman approaching sixty, and it never failed to grate on her second-eldest daughter’s ears. “Well, just look at this!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Girls, look! How absolutely charming!”

“Mum,” Elizabeth choked, “ _what_ are you doing here?”

Mrs Bennet held her smile, though her eyes glinted in a manner rather less than friendly. “I know you prefer not to suffer the _burden_ of your family’s presence when you’re working, Lizzie”—here Elizabeth made a frustrated huffing noise—“but that doesn’t mean we take a similar disinterest in _you_. Lydia absolutely _insisted_ on coming to see your painting when your father mentioned you were working on it here in London.”

“Of course she did,” muttered Elizabeth, glaring daggers at her youngest sister as Lydia attempted—without a great deal of success, it must be said—to adopt an expression of angelic innocence.

“Of course she did,” echoed Mrs Bennet, casting a fond smile at the back of Lydia’s head. “She’s very interested in your work you know, and it’s hurtful to her—to all of us—that you’re so secretive about it all the time.”

Elizabeth clenched her fists and forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose.

Lydia gave a sniff. “I have to say, though, Lizzie, I did think you might be working somewhere a little more central—”

“This really isn’t bad at all you know, Elizabeth,” interrupted Mary, the only person in the room actually looking at the painting.

“—it’s so quiet around here you’d hardly know you were in London at all,” concluded Lydia, as though her sister had not spoken. 

“Yes, well, I didn’t choose the location,” was Elizabeth’s acid reply. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Lydia waved her hand dismissively. “I’m sure we’ll head for Oxford Street the minute we’re done here, right Mum?”

Kitty shrieked and clapped her hands.

“The brushstrokes on the rocks in particular are quite striking, I think,” remarked Mary, “especially when compared to those on the clouds.” 

“Oxford Street!” cried Kitty. “Oh yes, Mum, can we?”

“And these birds here, you’ve really had a good try at capturing the movement of them soaring.”

“Well, I should hope so,” proclaimed Mrs Bennet. “There’s hardly any point in coming to London without stopping by Oxford Street.”

Elizabeth gave a delicate shudder. She’d been staying in London for weeks now and had yet to step foot on Oxford Street. Yet she, somehow, did not feel deprived.

“You’ll come with us, won’t you Lizzie?” Kitty implored.

“Of course she will,” said Lydia. “Lizzie, you must!”

“I’m afraid I have to work,” Elizabeth protested. “I’m a bit behind my schedule.”

She wasn’t, but the idea of a day spent among the crowds and noise of Oxford Street in the company of her mother and sisters—this on top of her already tired and frazzled state—already had a headache blooming behind her eyes.

Mary, however, nodded sagely. “I can see how you’d want to be focusing on your work,” she remarked. “You seem to be at that critical juncture between something merely passable and something rather good. Mustn’t lose concentration now.”

Elizabeth, with considerable effort, said nothing.

“Oh work, schmerk,” scoffed Lydia. “Your painting looks fine. Is it done?”

“Well, it—”

“It looks like it should be done. I’m sure there can’t be _that_ much more left to do. You’ve been working on it for absolute _weeks_. Meanwhile how many chances do you get to explore London with your sisters?”

“An excellent point, Lydia,” said Mrs Bennet. “Lizzie, you will come and spend the day with us.”

“Mum, I really have to crack on here.” Elizabeth was beginning to feel quite desperate. At any moment Darcy could arrive, and she wanted her family long gone before that happened.

Even as the thought of him crossed her mind she heard the sound of the door opening and knew it was too late. She squeezed her eyes shut as she turned around, and when she opened them again Darcy was standing just inside the door looking nonplussed.

“Oh,” he said stiffly. “Hello.”

There was a moment of dreadful silence during which Elizabeth grasped desperately for something to say, and then—

“Hel- _lo_ ,” muttered Lydia, not _quite_ under her breath, and before Elizabeth could move so much as a muscle Mrs Bennet was stepping forward with her hand outstretched, actually fluttering her eyelashes.

“Well, good _morning_ to you, sir,” she simpered. “And who might you be?”

Darcy blinked, then his brow began to wrinkle and Elizabeth could all but see the haughty frown soon to form on his face and hear the curt retort he’d make and she scrambled to prevent both.

“Mum, this is Mr Darcy, the man who commissioned the mural,” she said. “Darcy, my mother, Alicia Bennet.”

“Mrs Bennet.” Darcy acknowledged her with a curt nod and a brief clasp of her proffered hand. 

“Mr _Darcy_ ,” she cooed, clinging to his fingers as he attempted to withdraw them. “Oh _my_. Dear _me_ , but this is an honour. Girls, isn’t it an _honour_ to meet Mr Darcy, the very man who in his great generosity gave your sister this job.”

“Mum—” Elizabeth began, but Darcy interrupted.

“There was no generosity involved, I assure you,” he said, managing with effort to extract his hand from Mrs Bennet’s clutches. “I greatly admire your daughter’s work, Mrs Bennet, and I hired her on that basis.”

“Oh of _course_ you did!” Another flutter of the eyelashes. “I’m sure your taste is absolutely _impeccable_! But very thoughtful of you to consider her all the same. We’re _ever_ so grateful for anything that brings her some attention in the art world. My husband you know is a fellow of the Royal Academy—” here she paused for dramatic effect “—er, the _Royal Academy_ of the _Arts_ , you know…”

“I am familiar with that institution,” said Darcy.

“…and we can only _hope_ Elizabeth will manage to achieve even _half_ that much some day.”

“Indeed,” replied Darcy in a tone like ice. He did not look at Elizabeth and she was grateful for it. Her cheeks burned with mortification and she was certain their colour must reflect that.

“Now, Mr Darcy, you _must_ allow me to introduce my three youngest daughters,” continued Mrs Bennet, equally oblivious to Elizabeth’s distress and Darcy’s disdain. “This is my Lydia, the youngest—”

“ _So_ good to meet you, Mr Darcy,” purred Lydia with a flirtatious smile and an eyelash flutter that was the miniature of their mother’s.

“—and then this is Kitty, and over by the painting is Mary.”

“A pleasure,” said Darcy.

“Mr Darcy, we were just telling Lizzie she should take the day off and come to Oxford Street with us,” bubbled Lydia. “She said no, but I’m sure _you_ can help us convince her. Surely she can take one day off, can’t she? Tell her she can!”

“ _Lydia_ ,” hissed Elizabeth.

“What? No one can ever say yes if you don’t even _ask_ them, Lizzie.”

“I’m very pleased with the progress Miss Bennet has made so far,” said Darcy, his face expressionless. “If she wishes to take a day off for sightseeing I have no objection.”

 _Curse_ him, thought Elizabeth viciously. The one time his affected rigidity might actually be good for something.

“Ohh,” squealed Lydia and Mrs Bennet in one voice. “ _How_ very generous you are Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet exclaimed, “and no one could deny it! Didn’t I _tell_ you he was generous, girls? Be sure to thank him, Lizzie.”

“Mum, no.” Elizabeth found herself wishing, with a mad sort of whimsy, that mortification were a thing that one could actually, physically drown in. She’d drown Darcy in hers, and take great pleasure in doing so. Her mother and sisters were what they were and could be nothing else but he—he could put a stop to this easily, with simple insistence that she remain here to work. But he did not. He _chose_ not to.

“I won’t hear another word of argument, Elizabeth,” said Mrs Bennet firmly. “You will come to Oxford Street with us, and we’ll have a lovely family day out.” Her eyes were hard as she fixed Elizabeth with a stare. “Now say thank you to Mr Darcy and we’ll be on our way.”

Elizabeth turned to Darcy, her own eyes flashing in her crimson face. “Thank you _so much_ Mr Darcy,” she said, “for your _consideration_ and your _generosity_. I assure you that they will not be forgotten.”

Darcy, the utter bastard, inclined his head graciously and held the door open as Mrs Bennet, Lydia, Kitty, and Mary trailed through it. Elizabeth was last to go, shooting him one final dagger glance before following her family.

—

The door swung shut behind the Bennet women and Darcy stood for a moment, staring at it. Aching tension held his neck and shoulders tight and a heavy weight sat in the pit of his stomach. He stood rigid, fighting against himself until in a burst of emotion he swung around, one hand clenching into a fist while the other dragged through his hair. He wished he had something to hit.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to breathe—to suck air into his lungs and expel it, deeply, rhythmically, until his frantic race of his heartbeat steadied and the tension in his muscles loosened enough that he could roll it from his neck and shoulders. When he opened his eyes again he found himself confronted with the mural. 

It was nearly finished, and even more stunning than he’d dared to hope. She’d caught the landscape perfectly, from the rough texture of its craggy rocks to the grey-greens and umbers of the land below, to the sharpness of contrast between earth and sky. It drew him in as though he were there, filled his ears with the rush of the wind as it whipped through his hair and the cries of the birds as they soared, filled his blood with the rush of excitement at the beauty that surrounded him, spiced with the danger of stepping out onto the boulders’ edge, as far as he could without falling.

All this Elizabeth had seen in the scant time she’d spent in his favourite boyhood haunt—seen it as well if not better than he did after growing up there. She understood so much of what had shaped him, more than any other woman he had ever met, yet when he thought of her he yearned for even more. He wanted her to understand _him_ , all of him, and he wanted her to—here Darcy clenched his fist again, but he could not fight the thought away—he wanted her to love him.

She was everything he’d ever wanted and nothing he could allow himself to have. Nothing at all like the sort of woman he had, albeit vaguely, envisioned himself settling down with one day—a reserved, respectable woman with good breeding and the correct interests, who would amuse herself with charity work while nannies raised their children, leaving Darcy free to retreat to his office each day, comfortable in the knowledge that he had done his duty by his family and himself.

Elizabeth Bennet would never, _could_ never be that woman. Her profession, given sufficient time and work might be made respectable, as her father’s was, and her lifestyle he was certain she could be convinced to abandon once a better one was offered her. But her family—those sisters, that _mother_ —there was no mitigating that. Caroline was right. The Bennets were not a suitable match for a Bingley, much less for a Darcy. It was utterly out of the question.

Out of the question.

And yet. Darcy knew, in that place deep within him where he permitted honesty with himself, that it was not so simple as that. These feelings he had for Elizabeth, inconvenient and uncomfortable though they were, could not be dismissed or brushed away as merely unsuitable. He thought about her constantly, imagined her endlessly—often in ways that were distinctly less than gentlemanly—and he could not just turn that off like a tap despite the protests of his logical mind. He would have to find some other way to expunge her from his mind and heart—if only he had some notion of what that might be. 

With a snarl of pure frustration he stalked away from the painting and flung himself into Elizabeth’s chair... the very chair he’d seen her sitting in many times before, lost in contemplation… where he had imagined going to her, tracing the curve of her brow with his fingertips, pressing his lips against it before trailing them down to her mouth... sinking his hands into her hair...

He raked them through his own hair again now, tugging at it, focusing on the pain to force the fantasies from his mind. Instead he thought of Bingley—dear, honest Bingley whose affections were as warm and uncomplicated as he was himself. Bingley, who loved Jane Bennet and therefore wished to marry her. In his mind there was no obstacle to that desire. He loved the girl so he would marry her, with no thought spared for the embarrassment the union would bring upon his family… his friends… the bitterness of a future saddled by such relations.

Darcy lurched from the chair and onto his feet, propelled by the vigour of renewed purpose. Caroline’s campaign to discourage her brother from thoughts of matrimony was already well underway, and it was high time he, Darcy, lent his weight to the offensive. He would provide Bingley the reprieve he could not give himself and separate him, for his own good, from the woman whose presence in his life could only bring him to ruin.

—

When Elizabeth returned to her work space late that afternoon to pick up her bag and make sure her painting tools were properly stored, she was utterly exhausted. The clamour and bustle of Oxford Street drained her energy at the best of times, but navigating it whilst accompanied by her mother and Lydia shrieking with glee at every little thing, and Kitty chiming in usually to repeat what they had just said at an even shriller volume, and Mary trailing behind, criticising it all down to the smallest detail—Elizabeth felt as though she wanted nothing more than to collapse into her bed and sleep for a decade.

She checked her tools and took a quick, appraising look at the painting, making mental notes for what still needed work and where she would attempt to focus her concentration tomorrow, and when her mobile began to buzz in her pocket she was tempted to simply ignore it. It was probably just her mum, she thought, ringing to let her know they’d returned home safely, and she could not—could _not_ —face another conversation with her mother. But she dutifully fished the phone from her pocket all the same, and felt a wash of relief when she saw Jane’s name on the screen. No doubt Jane had heard of the impromptu shopping trip and wished to ensure that Elizabeth hadn’t done anything to their mum or sisters that would qualify as a felony.

She tapped the button to answer and settled into the small armchair Darcy had, rather thoughtfully, provided for her in the lobby, eager for the soothing relief of a conversation with Jane. “Hey,” she said brightly. “I promise they’re all still alive and unharmed, and—”

“Lizzie?” Jane’s voice was high and quavery, awash in tears.

“Jane?” Elizabeth sat bolt upright, instantly alert. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Charles,” Jane replied, and her voice broke on a sob. “He’s—he’s split up with me.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this won't come as a surprise to anyone as it's basically the premise of the whole fic, but there is smut in this chapter. Prepare yourselves.

It was late when Elizabeth got off the phone with Jane, after hours spent consoling her sister to the best of her ability from a short distance that in the circumstances felt tremendous, and promising to be back in Bristol as soon as she could for the customary wine-and-slagging-off-the-ex session. She didn’t say, _couldn’t_ say, that in this case she doubted it would do much good. This was not a standard Jane’s-ex scenario, wherein she was messed about by an obvious fuckboy and required little more when the relationship ended than Elizabeth and Charlotte’s honest opinions of him alongside copious amounts of alcohol. This was genuine heartbreak, a wound that would require far more than chardonnay and ribald jibes about penis size to mend.

Elizabeth’s own heart ached and her mind was deeply troubled, and though she was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally, she knew that in her current state she would never be able to sleep. Any attempt would only result in twisted sheets and worried thoughts and the pressing feeling in her chest that she ought to go to Jane _now_ despite knowing there were no more trains this evening and the earliest she could get there would be tomorrow morning, no matter if she went to the station now or later.

She paced restlessly for a minute or two, debating her options, then grabbed her bag and strode out the door. She would go to the pub, she decided, the lovely cosy one around the corner where she’d had dinner with George. She’d have a drink or two or four, and then she’d take a cab back home where with any luck her mind would be sufficiently quieted to allow for sleep.

When she stepped into the pub, however, the first thing she noticed was not the warmth of its atmosphere or the aged patina of the wood on its walls but bloody Darcy, perched on a barstool with a grace that simply should _not_ be allowed. Barstools were for lounging and for slumping and for hooking your feet through the rungs, thought Elizabeth viciously. They were not for sitting ramrod-straight and effortlessly elegant dressed in forest-green jumpers that looked so soft and inviting to the touch… and _especially_ not when you were a bloody wretch and a gaping arsehole such as Darcy.

Her frustration with him from earlier in the day came roaring back, and with it the ever-present desire to just _fuck_ him up. To rumple him and ruffle him and throw him off his stride, to shake that bloody unshakable reserve of his until it shattered, revealing, at long last, the man who lay beneath. She was certain he was there, that man, had caught glimpses of him before—in Darcy’s boyish enthusiasm for art and his love of his home and his family—but it was never more than a moment before he was gone again, concealed once more beneath the stony exterior of Fitzwilliam Darcy, as thoroughly as if he’d never been.

Propelled by demons she did not care to examine, Elizabeth seated herself on the stool beside him and ordered a whisky, watching him from the corner of her eye as she did. He had his phone at his ear and his fingers pressed to his forehead and he didn’t notice her there so she sipped her drink and waited, thinking about Jane and taking little notice of his conversation until—

“Bingley, do be _serious_ ,” Darcy snapped, and Elizabeth’s head whipped round to stare at him. “You know I’m right. You _know_ marriage was never truly an option here. Please tell me you understand that.”

Elizabeth’s hand shook as she set her glass on the bar, eyes still fixed on Darcy, not bothering in the slightest to pretend she wasn’t listening to every syllable he spoke. His eyes were shut and his fingers pressed hard against his temple. He still did not notice her.

“…yes, and I do appreciate that, but it’s only been a few months. How much do you truly know about her?… With so many failed relationships in her past can you be sure she even wants to get married?… Yes, well, as loath as I am to agree with Caroline, she certainly has the point on you there… Bingley, _all_ women become like their mothers, we have the authority of Oscar Wilde on that… No I definitely do not think you should call her. A clean break is best… This is best for everyone, Bingley, you’ll see… Listen, why don’t you come to London for a while? A change of scenery will do you good…”

Elizabeth was trembling now from head to toe, and full of such a raging fury that she could not even appreciate the look of horror that spread across Darcy’s face when he ended his call and saw her sitting there.

“E—Elizabeth,” he stuttered, visibly grappling for his composure, and oh but she would have taken such pleasure in seeing him so wrong-footed were she not absolutely incandescent with rage.

“So,” she purred, in the same honey-sweet tone her mother used to eviscerate queue jumpers and tear the heads off inattentive waiters, “I gather you’ve heard about Jane and Charles.”

Darcy swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have.”

“Do you know, it’s funny, I just got off the phone with Jane," Elizabeth continued. "She was in floods of tears, utterly heartbroken, and what’s worse _confused_. Confused as to why a man, a good, decent man by all appearances, a man who said he loved her and spoke openly of their future together, would, out of absolutely _fucking_ nowhere, dump her unceremoniously like a piece of old rubbish. I'd like to say I was able to offer some explanation, but it was as much a mystery to me as to her. Now, though, _now_ I wonder whether _you_ Darcy, might be able to shed some light on the matter.”

Her voice rose higher and higher as she spoke, soon attracting attention from the people around them. Elizabeth was far too furious even to notice, much less care, but Darcy, after a quick assessing glance around the room, turned to the barman and said sharply “Is the snug free?”

The barman nodded and took a key from the wall behind him. He held it out to Darcy who took it with a nod of thanks then clasped Elizabeth’s elbow in a firm grip and guided her away.

“We can’t discuss this here,” he said low in her ear, holding firm to her arm despite her furious struggles. With the key, he unlocked a small door just behind the bar area and tugged her through it into a small, cosy room. 

It was a lovely little room in fact, with a fireplace on the wall to the left of the door and a long leather Chesterfield in front of it, a round booth in the far right corner and a few smaller tables and chairs scattered about. Elizabeth, however, took little notice of any of it as she wrenched herself free from Darcy’s grip and rounded on him, seething with fury.

“How _dare_ you,” she spat. "How _fucking_ dare you?"

Darcy appeared perfectly calm but for the bright spots of colour high on his cheekbones. “I don’t wish to fight with you,” he said, in a voice that aimed for disinterest but did not quite achieve it. “However if you can’t manage a civil conversation then let us at least have privacy for whatever tirade you plan to unleash on me.” 

“Oh, yes, _privacy_ ,” she snarled. “Which only means you don’t want anyone to hear about what you _did_.”

“I don’t like to broadcast my private business, no. Even when I have nothing at all to be ashamed of.”

“Nothing to be _ashamed_ of? You _ruined_ the _lives_ —”

“Hardly ruined.”

“—of two people who _love_ each other and you believe you have _nothing to be ashamed of?_ ”

“Bingley falls in love at the drop of a hat; he’ll meet someone new next week and be perfectly fine," Darcy sneered. "And as for your sister—”

Elizabeth hissed.

“—she hardly seemed to care for him at all.”

“Hardly—to _care_ for—” sputtered Elizabeth. “How could you—you’ve seen them together _once!_ ”

He shrugged. “It was enough.”

Elizabeth was so furious she felt almost calm, as though she had transcended anger and achieved a state of being for which she had no name. “Are you so convinced of your own rightness then, of the _infallibility_ of your judgement, that you feel comfortable reaching out like the hand of bloody God and destroying people at your whim?”

“My judgment is rarely wrong,” he replied coolly. 

“Oh _is_ it? Is it really? Or do people just tell you that because you’re too rich to be contradicted?”

He scoffed. “Of course not.”

“But how can you be sure? Oh, no, I forgot, your _impeccable_ judgement would obviously prevent you from being deceived." She shook her head in disgust. "George was right about you.”

_"George_ ," Darcy snarled. "Yes, I can just imagine what tales of woe _he's_ spun you. And you, believing every word, have the gall to criticise _my_ judgment?" 

"Are you calling George a liar?" 

"I could call him far worse than that!" 

"Oh you arrogant, dis _dain_ ful—" 

"We are straying from the point," interrupted Darcy, “which is not in fact George Wickham nor your dazzling insights into my character, but rather the fact that Bingley cannot marry your sister. It's not merely my judgement that tells me this but every precept of logic and common sense. They’re a bad match in every way and given that, there could be no possible reason to continue their association.”

 _“Association!_ ” Elizabeth choked.

“I've done nothing more than free him from a connection that could only drag him down and make him miserable. I’ve done him a favour.”

“A _favour_ , oh yes indeed,” she mocked. “Your generosity is truly a thing to behold. I wonder, does Charles do for you anything like the _favours_ you do him?”

“I only wish he could,” Darcy snapped. “I’ve freed him from one Bennet woman, but that still leaves _me_ —” he broke off, but not before Elizabeth caught the flash of horror in his eyes, the crack in his composure she’d been waiting for that revealed an emotion she had not anticipated.

“You—” she gasped, staring at him in blank astonishment. “I’m guessing you don’t mean to imply you’ve developed a passionate attachment to my sister Lydia?”

Darcy closed his eyes, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw.

“Or to my mother, perhaps?”

“Elizabeth…” Darcy drew several deep breaths and cleared his throat, then opened his eyes. The expression in them was more raw than she had ever seen from him, more than she could ever have imagined him capable. “I—I don’t suppose you would care to have dinner with me?”

Elizabeth gave an incredulous shake of her head, astounded by both his passion and his arrogance. “Are you actually asking me out right now?” she demanded. “Really? After _everything_?”

Darcy ran a hand through his hair and gave a short, bitter laugh. “I know it’s mad,” he said. “Believe me, I know. I’ve been telling myself so for weeks but it doesn’t seem to make a blind bit of difference to how I feel.” He looked at her again, his gaze so intense she felt it burning into her. “There’s not a single thing about you that should appeal to me,” he said. “Your hair is outrageous, your family unthinkable, your life choices questionable at best. And yet I look at you and I talk to you and I want… I _want_.”

“ _What_ do you want, though?” she pressed, alight with new fury—and other, far less comfortable sensations—at these insulting words and everything they revealed. “Not a relationship with me, surely. You don’t want to take me out in public and hold my hand, introduce me to your friends and to your family as your _girlfriend_?” She pursed her lips in a mocking smirk and felt a dark thrill flare up from deep within her as his eyes flashed dangerously. “Oh no. I do _not_ believe that could be what you want.”

“Oh?” he replied, his deep voice gone deeper still, with a rasp she could swear she felt on her skin. “And just what is it that you _do_ believe I want?”

“I think you know.”

He stepped closer and she caught her breath, unable to move or to tear her gaze away from the heated yearning in his eyes. “I think we both do,” he murmured.

“Why don’t you take it, then,” she dared him. “That’s what your kind do isn’t it, they just take whatever they—”

Darcy kissed her.

—

He made no conscious decision to do it—he struggled even to think with her standing so close, her chest heaving and her gorgeous eyes dark and snapping with anger. Her hair curled riotously around her face and over her shoulders, its once-vibrant hue faded now to a soft violet… _so_ soft… those curls would twine around his fingers and her lips would be so sweet beneath his own, and—and then they were.

For the briefest moment she was stiff beneath his touch and he thought to pull away—then she was pressing against him and grasping at his shoulders… her lips were parting under his… she was kissing him back with an ardour that thrilled him, with her tongue and her teeth and her taste of sharp apples and mellow whisky—and for once in his life Darcy let himself be lost. With a groan he tangled his fist in her hair, tilting her head so he could kiss her more deeply, his other hand questing up beneath her shirt to revel in the softness of her skin. He could _feel_ the sound she made, the rough vibration of her moan beneath his fingertips and he clutched at her, desperate for more… more skin, more moans, more of that sharp, sweet taste. He felt wild and unbound, uncaring for anything other than the woman in his arms.

She broke their kiss and glared up at him, panting, her fingers still gripping tight to his jumper and the most arousing blend of lust and fury in her eyes. He could sense the turmoil in her mind, knew she was hovering on the edge of a decision that could break them both.

“Challenge accepted,” he rasped. “Your move.”

She hissed a breath through her teeth and flung herself at him, arms winding tight around his neck and hands fisting in his hair. The prickle of pain in his scalp sent fire racing through his blood, burning away any remnant of hesitation or thought for consequences. He unhooked her bra as she yanked at his jumper and the shirt beneath, pulling them over his head and tossing them aside, followed closely by her top. For a heated moment they stared at each other before surging together again—she raked her nails up his chest and he tangled his fingers into her hair, holding her steady as he licked down her neck and over the curve her breast to claim its nipple with his mouth.

 _There_ was that moan he craved, rumbling through her chest beneath his fingers and his lips, inflaming him. He sucked hard on her tender skin, nipped at it as she writhed beneath him, fingers gouging bloody half-moons into the flesh of his arms.

He released her breast and moved towards the other but she forestalled him with a rough tug at his hair, pulling him to her and kissing him hard as her fingers scrabbled at his belt and trousers. Her painting pants were loose and soft, with no fastenings at the waist—they slid easily over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet, then Darcy slipped his hand between her legs, his fingers stroking her slick flesh then pressing inside her.

She made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a moan and gripped him tightly again, wrapping her legs around his waist as he stumbled them over to the Chesterfield and set her down on the back of it, his fingers still moving inside her a she rid him of his trousers and closed her fist around his cock.

Darcy felt near delirium, lost in the silky heat of her body, the squeeze of her fingers, the thrum of his blood more powerful than anything he’d known before. The urge to just _take_ her, to plunge deep into the warmth he craved and chase his pleasure within it nearly overwhelmed him, but he had to be _sure_ —though there may be no affection in this act, he had to be sure that she was sure.

“‘Lizabeth,” he groaned, “you—are you—”

She understood. “Yes,” she gasped, “ _now_.”

He did not need to be told twice. He withdrew his fingers and grasped his cock, positioned himself then pushed in deep with a single thrust, exhaling on a moan at the slick ease of the entry. Elizabeth arched her back and tightened the clasp of her legs around his waist as he gripped her hips with bruising fingers and they began to move together.

The pleasure of it was as blindingly intense as he’d _known_ it would be. They had been dancing around this for weeks—a maddening pas-de-deux of attraction and vexation that could only end explosively. Fucking like this would resolve none of their differences, would almost certainly make circumstances between them considerably worse, but it was better than fighting and damn it all, Darcy thought, it felt _so_ bloody good.

Her nails were gouging him again, his shoulders this time, and he wondered vaguely how many marks she’d leave behind when this was done. He curled his fingers tighter into the flesh of her arse, determined to leave a few of his own, and nipped down her neck to suck a bruise right at the curve where it met her shoulder. She arched into his mouth with a moan, raked her nails down his back, slammed her pelvis against his and Darcy saw stars.

He was close, too close, but had no power to tell her so. All his focus was on clinging to what sanity remained to him—he would _not_ come before her, he would perish first—but then she gave a choking cry and arched again, squeezing him tightly both inside and out, and with a groan of profound relief against her neck he plunged in deep one final time and let himself go.

—

He had no notion of how long they stayed there, still connected and with limbs entwined, before the air began to cool their skin and the reality of what they’d done—in the snug of the pub for _fuck's sake_ , thought Darcy, the pub that was his haven when he needed to escape—sank in and the heat of passion that had driven them turned to icy horror.

Darcy released her hips and pulled away, refusing to feel bereft at the loss of her warmth, then turned his back to give her privacy to dress. The irony of this was not lost on him, but then they were not lovers or even friends—he was certain that a calm and sober Elizabeth could only view sex with him as a dreadful mistake and he wished neither to see the truth of this in her eyes nor increase her chagrin by watching her.

He could hear her moving behind him, her bare skin coming off the leather arm of the sofa, shuffling sounds as she collected her clothes. Something soft hit his back and he realised she’d tossed his trousers at him. He picked them up without looking at her and they dressed in a silence that was thick with mutual discomfort and and the smell of sex.

Elizabeth’s clothes were simpler than his and took less time to slip on. She righted them then strode to the door where she paused—Darcy turned his head to see her standing with her hand clenched tightly on the knob.

“The mural will be finished before the weekend,” she said, her voice cool and controlled. She did not meet his eyes. “Don’t come by again.”

The door opened then shut again, and she was gone.

Darcy zipped his trousers and fastened his belt, then stumbled back to the Chesterfield where he sat heavily, fists and jaw clenched tight, wondering if he had ever before in all his life fucked up anything so thoroughly as he had this.

—


	8. Chapter 8

When Elizabeth arrived at Temple Meads the next morning after a restless, sleepless night, Charlotte was there to meet her.

“Hey.” Elizabeth rushed forward and almost fell into her friend’s hug, so grateful was she to have it. “I’m definitely not complaining, but what are you doing here?”

“I took the day off,” said Charlotte.

"A day off? _You?_ "

Charlotte snorted. “I’ve got loads of time owing me and this seemed like a moment that called for a mental health break. So I took one.”

“I’m so glad you did.” Elizabeth squeezed Charlotte tightly then forced herself to let go before she did something foolish like break down in tears in the middle of the station. Charlotte gave her a curious look, one of those probing lawyer stares that observed too much, but she did not comment.

They left the station in silence, not speaking again until they were settled into Charlotte’s car and on their way.

“Have you seen her?” Elizabeth asked. 

“Not yet. I offered to come by last night but she wanted to wait for you.”

So Jane had been alone last night, heartbroken, while she, Elizabeth, was busy fucking the man responsible for that heartbreak. She clenched her jaw tight and stared out the window through eyed that saw nothing but a blur.

“What?” demanded Charlotte.

“What?” Elizabeth blinked hard then turned to frown at her. “What do you mean, what?”

"What is it? Whatever has you thinking so hard I can all but hear your brain grinding.”

“It’s nothing.”

Charlotte cast her a sidelong glare. “Don’t lie to me, Elizabeth. You know I can always tell.”

“Fine. It’s nothing I want to _talk_ about.” Which was a lie. She wanted badly to talk about it, but for now her focus had to be on Jane.

“We have ten minutes before everything we say has to be about comforting Jane,” said Charlotte, echoing her thoughts, “you can take eight of them to talk about yourself. What have you done?”

“What makes you think I did any—”

“Because I know you, Lizzie. If you were mad about what someone else did you’d be mad. You’d probably already be ranting. Instead you look guilty and say you ‘don’t want to talk about it.’ Hence, you’ve done something you’re ashamed of. What was it?”

“I slept with Darcy.” The words burst from her before she could halt or censor them, and she cringed to hear them spoken aloud. Cringed harder when Charlotte, Bristol’s most responsible driver, actually took her eyes off the road in order to gape at her.

“You _what?_ ” she sputtered.

“Slept with Darcy.” It was no easier to say the second time. “Though that’s really not the right euphemism for it. I fucked him. We fucked each other. We had sex in a fucking pub. Oh _God_.”

“In a _pub?”_ echoed Charlotte faintly. _“What?_ ”

“Not in the _pub_ pub, in that little room some of them have. What’s it called? A snug.”

“It’s still a pub, Elizabeth.”

“I _know_ ,” Elizabeth groaned. “And Charlotte, that’s not even the worst of it.”

“What on _earth_ could be worse? Hold on, let me brace myself.”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. “He’s the one who broke them up. Jane and Charles. He convinced Charles to dump her and— _fuck!”_ She clenched her fists and ground them into her thighs _._ “I can’t _believe_ I—”

“Right.” Charlotte swerved abruptly into a turn lane. “We are going to go get coffee. We are going to sit in the coffee shop and sip hot beverages and you are going to tell me everything. And I do mean _everything_ , Elizabeth.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth whispered. “But Jane—”

“We’ll text her to say the train is late.”

“Well, that’s plausible at least. But—”

“ _And_ we’ll stop by the off-licence on the way and buy her plenty of wine.” 

-

They went to her favourite coffee shop, the one where she’d met George. Deliberately, Elizabeth seated herself at a table as far away as possible from the one where she'd sat with him and let her head fall limply into her hands, pressing her fingers hard against her temples as Charlotte went to get the coffee. A moment later a latte and a croissant appeared before her, and she looked up to find Charlotte watching her with a gimlet eye.

“There,” said Charlotte firmly. “Now spill. And try to be calm about it, okay, no spiralling into a freak-out.”

Elizabeth grimaced. “Surely if anything deserves a freak-out it’s this?”

“Perhaps. But when you boil it down all you did was have ill-advised sex with someone you dislike. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

“It’s never happened to _me_ before. I mean the ill-advised part maybe, but I’ve always at least liked the bloke.”

“Hmm,” murmured Charlotte, sipping her coffee. “Well. Lucky you.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose but before she could reply Charlotte asked “Was it good, at least?” and she felt her cheeks grow fiery hot.

“Ah.” Charlotte looked satisfied. “It clearly was.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “It was—I mean, yes, it felt good. I came. But was it _good_? That I don’t know." She took a drink of her latte and attempted to marshal her thoughts. "It was... intense. A bit rough, from both of us. I was just so _angry_ and he was too. We argued, which was maddening but also kind of exhilarating and I was full of all this energy that needed.. _something_. An outlet of some kind. I felt like I would explode if I didn't do something physical to him, and sex seemed like a better option than punching him in the face." She drank again. "In the cold light of the morning after, though, I’m not so sure.”

“Why were you angry? Aside from Darcy always seeming to bring that out in you, that is.”

Elizabeth hid for a moment behind her coffee cup. “I told you, he broke up Jane and Charles,” she muttered.

“Wait, you fucked him _after_ you learned about that?” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Whoa.”

“That is _not_ helpful if you want to avoid me freaking out, Char!”

“Just trying to get my head round the timeline here.”

Elizabeth took a bracing gulp of coffee and a bite of croissant, drew a deep breath then started talking. She told Charlotte everything, from her mother and sisters’ visit in the morning to Jane’s call in the afternoon, to going to the pub and finding Darcy there. The conversation she overheard that sent her careering in outraged fury towards a collision she couldn't avoid. One that had almost felt inevitable.

“There’s always been something about him that just gets under my skin,” she confessed in a low voice. “Something that makes me want to get under his. I want to mess him up, knock that smug self-assurance a bit. Show him that he can be _wrong_ about things.”

“Well, fucking him senseless then walking out on him does seem like a pretty effective way to go about that.”

“And I’m not saying that isn’t a solid consolation," said Elizabeth wryly. "It’s just now I feel… well, I feel… I don’t know.” Like she should regret it but didn’t, and then guilty for that lack of regret. But there were some things she couldn’t confess even to Charlotte. “I don’t know how I feel.” 

“Maybe you don’t have to know,” said Charlotte with a small shrug. “You did a reckless, impulsive thing and now you need some time to process it. That’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. It is. Feelings are messy and understanding them requires an objectivity and distance that most people aren’t capable of so soon after a major experience like that.” Charlotte drained the last of her coffee and polished off her muffin. “And honestly, I have to say now that the initial shock has passed I’m kind of not surprised. You and Darcy have always had a vibe.”

"A 'vibe'?" echoed Elizabeth in disbelief. “ _What_ are you on about?"

Charlotte shrugged. "Just something I've always felt."

"How—what—but—you saw us in the same room _once_ when we didn’t speak at all and he insulted me! How could we have had a _vibe?_ ”

“It’s the way you talk about him,” Charlotte informed her. “You talk about him a _lot,_ you know.”

“Complain! I _complain_ about him a lot.”

“Yes. In a very lady-doth-protest-too-much-methinks sort of way.”

“You’re out of your mind,” scoffed Elizabeth. 

“I am eminently sensible and you should think hard about what I said.”

“I—”

“Later. Once you’ve had time to process. But now we should get going.” She cast a pointed look at the half-eaten croissant on Elizabeth’s plate. “You have a sister to console, after all.”

“Right.” Elizabeth finished her latte and wrapped the croissant in a napkin. “Let’s get going.”

-

Hours later, after much wine had been drunk and many tears shed, Elizabeth and Jane lay sprawled out on their sofa, idly munching on the crumbs of a bag of crisps while Charlotte made a run to the corner shop for more supplies.

“Thank you for this, Lizzie,” said Jane. “For coming back, and for listening as I bawled all over your shoulder.”

“Of course.” Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand. “You know I’ll always be here when you need me.” The stab of guilt was dulled somewhat by the pleasant haze of her wine buzz, it pleased her to note.

“I do know, and I love you for it,” Jane replied, returning the squeeze. “But what of you? Are _you_ well? You look dreadfully tired.”

“No— _Jane_ ,” Elizabeth protested. “Don’t worry about me. Tonight is only about you.”

“And _I_ need to know that my sister is well,” Jane retorted. “How goes your painting?”

“Yeah, it's going well. I need two, maybe three more days to finish it.” Elizabeth wondered if her sister could hear in her voice how dry her throat had gone. “It should be complete by the end of the week.” It _will_ be.

“That’s wonderful! And what does... Darcy think about it?” The hesitation before the name was slight, but it cut Elizabeth like a razor.

“His feedback has been very positive,” was all she could think of to say.

“This will be your big break, you know,” said Jane confidently. Her face was alight with pride and pleasure. “This will make your name. Just wait, you’ll see.”

“Perhaps.” Elizabeth’s smile felt rigid and heavy on her face. “Do you mind if we talk about something else? I just—I don’t feel like discussing my work.”

“Of course.” Jane squeezed her hand again then reached for more crisp crumbs. “I know, let’s watch a film! One that Charlotte will loathe.”

“What will Charlotte loathe?” inquired Charlotte herself, coming through the door bearing wine and more crisps.

“We were thinking of watching a movie,” said Elizabeth, exchanging glances with Jane. “A nice romantic comedy. Something written by Richard Curtis.”

“Richard bloody Curtis,” grumbled Charlotte. “Seriously? _Must_ we?”

“We must,” Jane and Elizabeth confirmed in unison, and Charlotte groaned.

“I want to watch _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ ,” Jane decreed. “I shall take my cue from Fiona—transcend my hopeless love life and remain fabulously single for the rest of my days. Oh, maybe I should get a bob!”

“Jane—” Elizabeth began.

“No, Lizzie, this is my heartbreak and I get to weather it in my own way,” said Jane, in a voice that wobbled only slightly. “I am Fiona.”

“Well, all right, then, Fiona, let’s put the bloody film on,” said Charlotte. “The sooner on the sooner it’ll be done. Wine, anyone?”

-

Bingley sat slouched in a chair, a glass of whisky dangling precariously from his fingertips. His hair stood up in the back and his shirt was wrinkled and buttoned oddly. He looked anxious and listless and restless all at once. He looked unhappy.

Darcy shifted in his own chair, restless himself and suffering from a species of discomfort that was wholly unfamiliar to him. It felt hideous, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It felt, he suspected rather strongly, like guilt.

Bingley wasn’t _truly_ unhappy, he told himself firmly. His friend fell easily in and out of love, he always had. The mourning period for a breakup lasted for a day, perhaps two, then Bingley would bounce right back and drag Darcy out to some frightful party or dingy club, there to meet the next love of his life. Thus had it always been and thus it would be this time too. Of course it would.

Even in his own mind, the words sounded hollow. Rationalisations, to protect his pride.

_My judgement is rarely wrong._

“Bingley,” he said abruptly. “If I did something wrong, you’d tell me so, wouldn’t you?”

“Hmm?” Bingley blinked absently at him. “What was that?”

“If you thought I’d done something wrong, made an error of judgement, you would say something. Right?”

“An error of judgement? You?” Bingley gave him a weak smile. “Surely not.”

“I’m being serious.” Darcy set his glass on the side table and leaned forward. “If you thought I was wrong, there’s no reason why you would… hesitate to tell me so, is there? You would tell me?”

“You’re straining my brain with these hypotheticals, Darce,” Bingley replied, with a limp attempt at his customary good humour. “I’d like to say of course I would tell you, but honestly it’s never occurred to me to question you in that way.”

“Why not?”

Bingley sipped his drink as he thought. “I suppose it’s that you always seem so self-assured. I often feel full of doubt, but you never do.”

“So you listen to me only because I appear confident?”

“Well, no. Not only that. I trust you. You’ve never led me wrong yet.” He smiled, but with such a weight of sadness that Darcy swore he could feel it pressing on his chest. “I trust you never will.”

Darcy swallowed hard then forced his own smile and a nod he hoped was reassuring. He reclined in his chair again and picked up his drink, tossed back what remained in the glass then closed his eyes.

He closed his eyes but _she_ was there regardless, still there behind his lids, vivid as the daylight. The tilt of her head, the scorn in her eyes. The disdain in her voice as she raked him across coals he hadn't even known existed.

_Oh is it? Really? Or do people just tell you that because you’re too rich to be contradicted?_

Too rich to be contradicted. Always so self-assured. I trust you.

_…are you so convinced of your own rightness then, of the_ infallibility _of your judgement…_

Darcy pressed his fingers to his eyes.

-

Elizabeth returned to work in the early afternoon of the following day with the remnants of a hangover lingering in the ache behind her eyes and the cotton-wool dryness of her tongue, and a sense of vague foreboding that sprang from an entirely different source. She was half-expecting to find Darcy there waiting for her, despite her demand that he not return, and she felt her muscles tensing and her heartbeat quickening as she opened the doors.

The room was empty. Of course it was. Elizabeth released her breath slowly and willed her frantic pulse to slow as her eyes scanned her painting and her tools. All appeared to be precisely as she had left it, and she sighed again as her tension drained away—until her gaze fell on her chair and she saw the envelope. It sat propped on the arm, unmissable, and even from a distance she could make out her name written on the front in a large, looping scrawl.

She approached it as warily as though it might explode, and when she picked it up her hands trembled. It was from Darcy of course, no other conclusion was possible, and Elizabeth was not altogether sure that she was ready to hear anything _he_ might have to say. But her curiosity got the better of her after only a minute’s debate and before she could think better of it she tore open the envelope and withdrew a letter—one composed on thick, creamy paper, clearly expensive, and written, unless she badly missed her guess, with a fountain pen.

Of fucking course.

With an irritated snap of her wrist she unfolded the pages and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, I am so sorry to leave you hanging from the cliff like this, but Darcy's letter is _long_ and I want to be sure I do it justice. It needs another edit, and honestly probably deserves its own chapter. The wait shouldn't be a long one, though, no more than a day or two. Please accept invisible, socially-distanced Internet hugs by way of apology.


	9. Chapter 9

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_I hope the appearance of this letter in your work space won’t alarm you unduly. I made a point to leave it early in the morning when I could be sure that I would not encounter you there. Please rest assured that my intent in writing it is not to cause you further distress by revisiting those subjects about which I am sure you will agree we have said all there is to say. With regard to your sister and my friend, as well as any attachment I may once have felt towards you, I fully comprehend your feelings and opinions as I trust you do mine._

_However, there are two other issues that I feel I must address. The first is rather delicate so I will put it as plainly as I am able. I wish you to know that should any consequence arise from our encounter I will of course abide without question by any and all decisions you make regarding it. You should have no cause for concern from a health standpoint; I am tested regularly and under normal circumstances am scrupulously careful in my associations with women. That my conduct with you in this matter was less than considerate is a point on which I feel thoroughly ashamed and for which I can only apologise._

_The second issue is in many ways more delicate still. Perhaps it would be wiser to say nothing, however I find that I cannot, in part due to a strong desire to have you think only as poorly of me as I deserve and no more, but more particularly I believe it is because despite everything that has occurred between us I do think more highly of you than you perhaps imagine, and I wish above all else not to see you make a grave mistake due to lack of information. Not when I could easily provide that information, at the cost of little more than my pride._

_I’m sure you would argue that pride is something I have in sufficient abundance that I could stand to lose a bit of it, and I could not say with complete certainty that you would be wrong. What you are wrong about, Elizabeth, and please do not crumple up this letter the moment I write it—I implore you at least to do me the courtesy of reading to the end._

_What you are wrong about is George Wickham. Wrong, I believe, about both his character and his intent, and I beg your indulgence while I outline the background necessary to illustrate my meaning._

_I’m certain Wickham must have told you that he and I were boyhood friends; I am informed that he rarely passes up the opportunity to do so and at any rate this, at least, is true. I have no brothers, only the sister whom I have previously mentioned to you, and growing up as I did on a large estate and attending boarding school for most of the year, it was not easy for me to make friends with the local boys. Wickham was the son of the Pemberley Group’s Chief Financial Officer, a man my own father considered a friend. They made a point of bringing us boys together and so from an early age Wickham spent most of his summers at Pemberley with me. He had a charming way about him, one that helped break the ice with the boys in the village, and I admired his ability to do what I could not. Everyone seemed to like him, while even as a boy I was awkward with people and struggled to form friendships, so you can imagine how I treasured the few I had. He and I grew up nearly as close as brothers, and for a time everything was fine._

_The year we were sixteen Wickham’s father died, quite suddenly, and that was where it all began to go wrong. After the elder Mr Wickham’s death, the new Pemberley CFO uncovered some irregularities in the accounts he had kept, eventually discovering that more than five million pounds had been embezzled from the company. At first my father was loath to believe it; he could not believe that his closest friend would steal from him in such a manner, but the deeper the investigation dug the more the evidence became incontrovertible. This development, as you can readily imagine, broke my father’s heart._

_Mr Wickham, it transpired, had laundered his embezzled funds quite thoroughly. So thoroughly, in fact, that they were never fully recovered. I imagine he must have concealed them somewhere with the intent of passing them on to his son in due course, however with his early and unexpected death young Wickham was left with no inheritance save some rather shocking outstanding debts and a tarnished name. Determined to save the son from the sins of the father, my own father took young Wickham even more firmly under his wing. He paid the debts, brought Wickham to live with us permanently and fully funded his life and education. With a bit of influence, he secured Wickham a place at Cambridge alongside me, and it was during our years there that I first began to notice things that made me question both the nature of Wickham’s character and of our friendship._

_It soon became evident that as a student he was rather lacklustre, showing little interest in his classes or the subject of his course and remarking frequently that as my father had a job earmarked for him upon his graduation, the marks he obtained were of no great importance. This troubled me, and when he changed his course from economics to politics I grew more troubled still. But I reminded myself that it was his decision to make and I did him the credit of assuming he had discussed the change with my father beforehand. Truthfully, I did not devote to the matter a great deal of thought, as I was quite caught up with my own studies and had little attention to spare for anything else. Even beyond that, however, I no longer had much interest in the man himself. It was at university that I met Bingley and the friendship we formed threw into stark relief all that had been lacking in my association with Wickham, things that I, having no other close companions, had simply not recognised until then. It was therefore easy to allow him to slip almost completely from my life. He as well showed no great inclination to maintain our old connection and as time went on I found I felt the loss of it less and less._

_Roughly two months before we were set to graduate, circumstances that had been simmering over the previous three years reached a crisis point. Wickham sought me out, evidently distraught. He had, he said, fallen far behind in his studies that term and would not qualify for graduation. When I enquired as to why, given that his academic performance in previous terms, while not stellar, was at least competent, he refused to give me a straight answer. Instead he informed me that he had been to see my father, to request that he fund another year or two of study, time for Wickham to redo his course and earn his degree. My father, who I can only imagine must have been bitterly disappointed, refused this request. Wickham begged me to intervene for him but I refused as well. My father had already gone so far beyond the scope of any responsibility he owed to his friend’s memory that I could see no good reason to trouble him further with imprecations on behalf of a man who was little more than an acquaintance to me by that point. When it became clear to him that my refusal was final, Wickham fell into a rage. He cursed and swore and threatened me with violent retribution, until I was forced to remove him bodily from my rooms._

_I later learned that in a similar rage he went back to my father, presumably to launch at him a similar attack. I do not know precisely what passed between them, only that moments after Wickham left his office for the second time, my father suffered a heart attack that would prove fatal._

_Perhaps I should not blame Wickham for this—the autopsy revealed my father suffered from an underlying heart condition—yet I confess I do. I cannot help but feel that were it not for his conduct my father may still be alive. It does occur to me that perhaps this feeling affected my ability to think rationally about my former friend, and may have impacted my judgement and my subsequent actions in an adverse way. In truth even now I am unable to look back on these events with a genuinely objective eye and so I shall leave it to you, Elizabeth, to draw your own conclusions with regard to my conduct._

_Roughly six months after my father’s death, Wickham came to my office at the Pemberley Group. I attempted cordiality as best I could, or at least I did not immediately have him escorted from the building, but he displayed no similar restraint. Instead, he demanded that I provide for him the job that, in his words, he was owed. As you might imagine, I refused. I could no longer trust him—if indeed I ever could—and in my heart I held him responsible for the loss of my father. Frankly, I could not abide the thought of working with him. However, in memory of the boy he’d been and how fond my father was of him at one point, I offered to help him find another job in another city. He declined, not wishing, he said, to leave London, but he intimated that if I could see my way to paying him a sizeable sum he would in return promise to forfeit any further claim to employment with the Pemberley Group and to remove himself from my life for good. This proposal I accepted. I paid him five million pounds—ironically, the identical sum his father had embezzled—and hoped rather than believed that this would be the last I ever saw of him._

_Had Wickham honoured his word I would have nothing truly to hold against him, and while I would have agonised to see you with a man of such weak character I believe I would have been able to hold my tongue and respect your choice. However, as I am certain you have already deduced, Elizabeth, he did not honour it. Quite the opposite in fact, and with near disastrous consequences._

_I have spoken to you before, I believe, of my sister, Georgiana. She is ten years my junior, too young to remember much of Wickham from when he and I were lads aside from a generally favourable impression of a handsome boy who used to make her laugh. Two years ago, however, she came to know him, and far better than I ever imagined she might. She was on holiday in Ramsgate with some friends from school and there she encountered Wickham, by coincidence she believed but I have always had my doubts. He claimed acquaintance, so she told me, with the owners of the house they were staying at, the Younges, and affected great surprise to discover that Georgiana was among the party hosted by his “dear friends.”_

_I do not know by what means he insinuated himself so thoroughly into her affections nor what methods he employed to beguile her, but over the course of no more than a week or two Wickham had convinced Georgiana he was in love with her and she with him. He painted them as star-crossed lovers, fated to love but kept cruelly apart by her young age—she was barely sixteen—and the looming threat of a disapproving brother. He pleaded with her to elope with him to Scotland, claiming that only marriage could secure their love and their future. In truth, and as I expect you have already guessed, Elizabeth, only marriage could secure his claim to any of my sister’s shares in the Pemberley Group or her considerable independent fortune, to say nothing of how thoroughly he would revenge himself upon me should he become my brother-in-law._

_Fortunately, Georgiana could not bear to break the heart of the brother she loved dearly by disappearing with no clue or word as to where she had gone, and so the night before the planned elopement she called me and confessed all. I departed for Ramsgate immediately, arriving in the early hours of the following morning to find my sister alone, heartbroken and in tears. It seems that when she informed Wickham that I knew of their plans, he became furious and exploded into that rage with which I was unfortunately all too familiar. I dread to think what may have happened had Georgiana not let it slip that I was on my way there—the moment she did Wickham fled. I called the police and they searched for him but without success; I’m sure that by that point he was long gone, leaving Georgiana to bear the pain of his manipulation and betrayal and myself to deal, once again, with dreadful consequences arising from his misbegotten connection to my family._

_Elizabeth, I know that you are not one to take advice so I shall offer none. I merely present you with such facts as are known to me in hopes that from them you will draw the conclusions to which I believe your sensible nature must inevitably guide you. It would pain me deeply to see you suffer as my sister has, not just from Wickham’s calumny but from the heartbreak he left behind. A heartbreak from which she has even now not fully recovered. I ask only—indeed, I beg you—to think carefully on all I have revealed, for your sake far more than for mine. Despite all that has occurred between us, Elizabeth, please believe that I hold you in great esteem and wish you nothing but good fortune and happiness in the future._

_Yours,_

_Darcy_


End file.
